Harry Potter and the Best Laid Plans
by viciousmouse
Summary: While returning to his past has been more of a challenge than Harry expected, he has still managed to find time to make sure his young friends are looked after. But Harry is beginning to realise that juggling his past and his future is more difficult than he expected, and controlling the timeline is more complicated than he thought. Sequel to Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards.
1. Small Successes

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of that world. Some small sections of text may be taken from the works of J.K. Rowling in accordance with copyright law in my country.**

**Note: The is the second story in an ongoing series, and follows on from "Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards".**

Harry Potter strode briskly towards the gleaming row of taxis by King's Cross Station. Behind him lingered the cheerful calls of Hogwarts students waving goodbye to their friends, and the somewhat confused mutterings of hundreds of wizarding parents trickling past the platform barrier and through the muggle train station.

Harry didn't bother to spare a thought for the chaos behind him; he had other things on his mind. As always, the train ride back to London had taken most of the day, and Aunt Petunia was surely getting ready to put the dinner on as Harry strode out of the station. The Dursleys would not be picking him up, of course, instead prioritising their comfortable dinner as they had always wished to do. Due to his newfound independence he anticipated seeing less of his relatives this year, and Harry thought that he may have earned himself some appreciation because of that.

He had a tentative sort of arrangement with them that eased the tension somewhat: they practiced mutual avoidance.

As the thought crossed his mind, Harry realised that him arriving back from Hogwarts in the middle of dinner would probably not be beneficial to his relationship with his family. He stopped his feet in contemplation.

What would Hermione recommend?

Impulsively, Harry decided he would take a taxi to Charing Cross and the Leaky Cauldron, and spend the night there instead.

The idea seemed more attractive the longer he thought about it. Staying overnight in Diagon Alley would easily allow him to run a few errands before sneaking back into the Dursley's house with much less fanfare sometime on Monday, no one the wiser. He would happily avoid conflict with Uncle Vernon, Dudley could continue to forget Harry's existence, and Aunt Petunia could keep on pretending that her perfect, normal family had never had an unwanted interloper who lived in the cupboard under the stairs.

In fact, why announce he'd come back at all? If Harry could avoid reminding them all of his unwanted presence, the happier everyone would be.

The less fuss the better, after all.

The thought of 'fuss' arrested Harry, and with each new step that he took towards the first taxi in the rank his mood dropped. The overcast skies suddenly seemed to match his temper. With a few murmured words in the window of the front-most taxi, Harry slunk into the back seat of the car and stared moodily out the window.

Regretfully, Harry thought about his plans.

He had looked forward to these holidays with the focused kind of hope a house-elf might have looking at a forbidden room full of dust bunnies. The possibilities of school break, the flexibility and freedom he had never before enjoyed, had dangled just out of his grasp for months and months. Harry had dreamed of finally indulging in a few pleasant fantasies. He'd had them all planned out: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, beaches and lakes and theme parks – all the theme parks. Harry desperately wanted to visit all the holiday destinations that normal people saw at least once. Then, he had decided, he would have the magical experience too. Hermione had always been confused by Stonehenge. Was it as magical as the muggle history implied, or was their whole understanding completely wrong? Plus, Harry had been listening carefully to the gossip in Gryffindor Tower. Wood had been a great proponent of visiting the home pitch of the English National Quidditch team, and Alicia Spinnet argued fiercely for the benefits of visiting the Roman Baths – the magical ones. Apparently there were ancient runes etched into the stone that brought about untold benefits for health, or so Alicia claimed. She said every magical family holidayed there at least once.

Harry muffled a sigh, and stared out the windows of the taxi, his plans ruined. Despite being thrown roughly into his school trunk and well out of sight, the mere existence of his exam transcripts mocked him. They were good for his age, very good considering his natural – uh – talents and interests, but they were not good enough. His high expectation and hopes for the holidays were bleeding out from him slowly, had been since they moment he got them back, and by the time Harry the taxi driver had merged onto the main street, he was as cold as ice.

Harry relaxed in the back seat of the taxi until it dropped him by the familiar Charing Cross intersection, and a few moments later, he managed to slip into the Cauldron with barely a bang of the door.

Tom, wiping down tables near the counter, looked up with a smile, and had Harry set up with a room and a piping hot dinner to follow with a minimum of fuss. Steak and kidney pie, roast potato and mushrooms, minted peas, and a foamy tankard of butterbeer appeared on a tray almost before Harry was settled in. He dropped his luggage carefully at the foot of his bed and slowly trudged over to the small dining table by the window. He was exhausted.

The warm smells curled up towards his face, and Harry picked up his fork with a barely suppressed sigh.

He had made plans for these holidays, new plans, to help him get ready for the year ahead. But surely tonight, and maybe tomorrow, he could have some time to himself?

He ate the food mechanically, thoughts swirling in his mind, until Harry realised that he had worked himself into a sulk. That was the precise opposite of the self-control he was attempting to attain, but he couldn't simply perk himself up. Reluctantly, but with no other alternative, Harry sent himself to bed.

After a good sleep in the soft, warm bed, Harry woke up at the pub feeling lighter than he had for months. He was used to stressful months at school, but this time it had only been first year – first year, for a second time! – and he'd still had to work hard to make it through. For months and months, Harry had kept himself rather busy and couldn't help but remember that he was the only person in the world who knew what was coming. He should really jump out of bed and keep going.

But the room was so cosy in the morning. The vanilla scented sheets were warm and soft, the rough-hewn panels of wood on the walls smelled like cinnamon or other spices. He fought himself bravely, just to get up.

The noise of him stirring must have caught someone's attention, and by the time Harry had washed his face and changed clothes a steaming hot breakfast was delivered to his door. Warm cooking smells reached his nose. The toast was a perfect golden brown; the bacon, deliciously oily and crisp.

Harry ate his full English breakfast in the privacy of his room, occasionally sipping casually from his foaming tankard of Butterbeer, and divided his attention between the picturesque view of an early morning Diagon Alley, and the food laid before him.

The steam from his meal curled upwards, bathing his face in gentle heat and his glasses in the lightest of foggy condensation. The comfort of the inn contrasted with the still chilly temperature of the early morning, and Harry relaxed bonelessly in the peace of the dawn.

If he had been in his original timeline, Harry mused as he waited for the steam on his glasses to clear, almost nineteen years old, he would be looking for a job right now. The rebuilding of Hogwarts would have been complete. Funerals done. Trials held, and over. He would be picking up the pieces and trying to move forward.

He had no idea what he would be doing. Auror work seemed…

It was what everyone assumed he would be doing, Harry supposed. He'd had a duty to keep on going, hadn't he? Be the change you want to see, Hermione had always said.

He had more time now, of course, to be that change. He refocused on the breakfast before him.

For now, Harry decided, it would have to be enough that he could enjoy the calm before the storm.

The hats and heads of busy wizards bustled about on the street below him while Harry took his time to muse and ponder over his meal. He would be joining the people out there for one more day, Harry determined, before he returned to the Dursleys mid-Monday.

He took his time starting the morning; Tom had sent up a complimentary Daily Prophet with his meal, and Harry browsed through the news slowly before collecting up his luggage and making his way outside.

The Owl Post Office was his destination. In between the mad panic and general scramble to clean out the Gryffindor dorm before the train, Harry had found time to make a quiet stop at the school Owlery. A few whispered instructions later, a surreptitious exchange of bacon, and a school owl had been sent to wing its way off to Diagon Alley, bearing the precious burden of Harry's wand. All going well, it was now being held at the Post Office for him to retrieve, thereby once again avoiding its tagging by the Trace.

Despite all the thought and planning Harry had put into this – over the period of one whole year, no less – he was still uncertain as to whether it would work. Was the ministry Trace placed on the wand sometime during the ride on the Hogwarts Express? When someone walked through the barrier? Or was it somehow attached to his person instead? Harry thought the wand and barrier theory made more sense, but ten months was a long time to wait to test his hypothesis.

And he still wasn't sure of his plan's success, but it was worth a try. After all, he had a number of important plans that required it. The thought brought Harry back to the present, and he firmed up his steps as he strode down the Alley.

A few shopkeepers waved cheerfully to him as he ambled past their shops. It was not that they recognised him, but rather good advertising, although he allowed to himself that a few might remember him from the time he stayed in the Alley last year. But Harry barely got any strange looks, not even the school trunk bobbing along behind him drew much attention, and he decided that his identity was probably undiscovered for now.

Long may it last.

Harry kept walking on, arriving at the Post Office early enough to beat the crowds.

The shop was exactly as he remembered it: dark and dingy, a stale, rancid smell permeated the building; owl droppings and pellets, dandruff and fluff littered the floor. As the doorbell tinkled closed behind him, a cheerful looking woman, maybe in her twenties, dark hair curling wildly about her face, greeted him from behind the counter.

"Good morning," she smiled formally. "How can I be of service today?"

"Morning," Harry nodded. "I'm here for a pick up. Harry Potter? I think you have a few things on hold for me."

Her eyes bugged out for a minute, she stared at his forehead, and then her smile widened into a genuine grin. "Oh, Harry Potter! What an honour. I'm so pleased to meet you, would you mind a handshake?" She trotted around the counter and clasped his hand with both of hers. "My mother will be so jealous. Harry Potter himself! Thank you, Harry – may I call you Harry? – for everything you've done. I remember the bad times, I was at Hogwarts myself when it happened. I can't express just how grateful we all are." She pumped his hand up and down the whole time. "What an honour, what a complete, utter honour it is to meet you."

"Thanks," Harry grimaced, trying subtly to extract his hand from hers. "I'm, uh, glad I could help out. So do you have my parcels for me then?"

"I'm Gladys Whitaker, daughter of Wallace Whitaker, from Devon," she added, as if it made a difference to Harry. Gladys leaned forward conspiratorially, to murmur, "I'm a half-blood, you know. You did my family a favour we'll never forget. My parents still talk about you regularly, you see. They sleep safe in their beds every night, thanks to you."

"Oh, good," managed Harry, his hand still grasped tightly. "I'm, uh, glad you're all well."

"Oh, but we are," she beamed at him. "If there's anything we can ever do for you, anything at all, just say the word."

"Brilliant!" Harry tried. "Perhaps you might have some mail for me?"

Finally, the woman let go of his hand. "Oh! But you'll be wanting your mail, then! They've been the source of a bit of gossip, just let me tell you. Martha – she's our newest hire, you know – Martha's been telling me, 'They can't belong to _our _Harry Potter', she said. She swore up and down it must be some other bloke with the same name. Course, there's lots of Harry's now, don't you think? I suppose most of them are quite young still, though, would you agree?" She made it back behind the counter, and then turned, digging around in the cubbyholes stacked on the wall behind it. "My youngest brother, for example, is a Harry. Named after you, of course. He'll be making it into Hufflepuff in a wee while, let me tell you. He was a bit of a surprise to the family, if you know what I mean. A celebratory baby, my parents always say. I'll tell him I met you. He'll be thrilled!"

"Lovely," Harry said weakly.

"I know!" She continued burbling. "So we thought it might be you we were holding these for, but then we thought, it probably wouldn't _really_ be you, y'see? And what are the chances? Here you are!"

She finally turned, glowing triumphantly, a small pile of mail and parcels balanced neatly in her arms.

"You've got a few letters that came in last night," she said. "And this morning's Daily Prophet, too. That's be fourteen knuts for that lot, and another eight knuts for this little pouch here." She waved at the small little bag sitting innocuously on top of the pile of paper and parchment. Harry eyed it eagerly; it held his wand in it, after all. She passed the pile over. "There's an Undetectable Extension Charm on this, I'll wager a galleon. 'Course, they're completely undetectable, don't you worry, but we see a lot here, for the post, y'see, so I'm developing the sense."

She looked faintly disappointed that Harry didn't open it in front of her, but then looked back at him sunnily.

"And then there's the holding fee, and the mail redirect ward for twenty-four hours," she concluded, "So all up, you owe six sickles and three knuts. I'm sorry I can't give you a discount, but you know what the boss's like."

Harry counted out the money and handed it over to her carefully.

"Thank you very much," he said. "Can I set up a medium-term mail redirect for the holidays while I'm here?"

"Well!" Gladys started. "You certainly can, I've just learnt the redirect charm myself, don't you know. But it'll be cheaper if you hire a box for a month or two, rather than pay for the holds individually. Shall I set you up?"

"Please."

"I don't suppose it would be possible for you to come back – which you will anyway, of course – but, after ten in the morning sometimes? Martha will be furious, absolutely furious, I say, with herself, that she missed you this morning. But she doesn't work weekends, and starts a bit later than me during the week. What do you think?"

"I'm sure I'll see her soon," agreed Harry, somewhat less than enthusiastically, but his tone flew right over the woman's head.

"Oh, how lovely! She'll be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled, I tell you."

She stopped talking, to Harry's intense relief, and picked her wand up, frowning and concentrating furiously for a moment. Her wand darted in front of her, a complicated pattern cutting through the air, then she put it down with a satisfied smile.

"There you go, Mr Potter. Oh – it was Harry, now, wasn't it? There you go, Harry. One mail redirect charm, up and running."

Harry hesitated slightly. "Uh…I should probably mention, there might be some problem with my mail being intercepted over the next couple of months. A house elf, I should say. Will this cover that?"

The woman – Gladys – seemed to calm down a little as she thought, and her brow furrowed pensively. "Goodness! Now, there must be quite a story behind that claim! But don't you worry, Mr P – Harry, we take our duties seriously. I'm assuming that his house elf is not yours?" She enquired. Harry nodded.

"Hrm…obviously, otherwise you would simply order them not to steal your mail. Silly old me!" Gladys flushed red, but continued to think. "I don't suppose…But it is you, after all. In which case they are probably watching your place of residence. Intercepting the owls, don't you know."

Harry had a momentary vision of Dobby leaping off roofs to mug owls mid-air, pillow case fluttering in the wind, feathers flying on impact. Then he realised that Gladys was still talking and swiftly refocussed his thoughts.

"As long as you intend to come here to collect your mail – which you are – there should be no problems. I will discuss it with the boss, however, just to be safe. Was that all?" She raised her brows inquiringly.

"Thanks."

Harry handed over a couple of galleons for the service and the box he'd be renting for a month, and made to leave.

"Thanks," he nodded again. "I guess I'll be seeing you shortly, then. Do you think you could…Martha's okay, obviously, but perhaps you could _not _mention to the customers that I'm coming here?"

"Not a problem," the woman beamed at him, her buoyant mood restored. "The Owl Postal Office prides itself on our professional conduct and speedy deliveries. You won't have to worry about us," she assured.

"Ah," Harry muttered sceptically. She didn't seem to see any irony, but that was witches and wizards for you, he supposed. "Well, see you again then."

The little doorbell tinkled again, as he showed himself out. With nothing urgent to do today, he thought he may as well browse the Alley.

By the time Harry entered the last shop of the day, he had bought a bottle of wand polish, twelve new rolls of parchment, three new quills, and six bottles of ink of various enchantments and colours. He'd had an ice cream at Fortescue's, and found time to pop all his parcels away tidily, and reunite with his wand. He'd also topped up on Sleekeazy's – the witch had remembered him from last year, embarrassingly enough, and given him a discount _again_ – and found himself an armload of new books to study from. He finally found himself standing in front of the stirring rod display in the back corner of the apothecary, just behind a pile of brass scales that teetered precariously some distance over his head. There was some odd advice from Malfoy ringing in his ears.

Malfoy had once mentioned it offhandedly, half sneering, half curious, as the Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class had ended for the day and all the students were streaming out.

Match his stirring rod to his wand wood, Harry pondered.

Was that a thing? He curiously fingered a pale golden stirring rod in his hands, ruminating over the matter. Ash, Hermione – the original Hermione, that was – had once told him, had links to both Celtic and Norse traditions, and represented power to change one's fate, as well as healing and control. It seemed a powerful – and stubborn – type of wood. On British soil, at least. The colour, Harry continued to muse, seemed to match his current stirring rod, the one that had come with his basic Hogwarts Potions supplies. Back before it had grown dark with use, of course.

Harry rolled the thin wooden handle in his fingers. If his logic was correct, an Ash stirring rod would probably help a beginner Potions student control their cauldron. It might cause less explosions, he thought. That seemed helpful.

But, he continued to ponder, perhaps once students had passed those first few steps, a more _personalised _stirring rod might be called for. Something that worked with his magic, complemented his character.

Harry felt more certain of his logic when he remembered the kind of magical snobbery that Malfoy might embrace.

Harry put the ash rod back in the cubby it had come from and began to look for the stirring rods of holly.

Immediately Harry noticed that there were a few wood types that seemed very common. According to the labels, birch, oak, and chestnut seemed to be popular choices as each had multiple cubbies stacked high on the wall, crammed full of wooden sticks of various lengths. As did ash. It took Harry some time to find a meagre collection of Holly stirring rods, before realising that the colour of the wood didn't match his wand at all. He paused in confusion.

"Are ye lookin' for somewha' in particular?" Harry jumped when a gravelly voice interrupted his focus. A middle-aged wizard, somewhat hunched-backed, stood uncomfortably close behind him.

"What? I mean," Harry glanced once more at the array for stirring rods in front of him, "pardon? Yes, thank you. Please. Um."

The apothecary, for presumably the wizard was he, ignored Harry's confusion and nodded at the holly sticks he was looking at.

"They won' look like yer wand, o' course," he muttered. "All tha' wand polish an' fancy finish won' react t'the potions well, y'see."

"Oh," Harry realised. No wonder it had taken him a moment to identify them. "In that case –"

"How long be the rod ye be wantin'?"

Harry paused. "That matters too?"

The older man grunted impatiently. "O' course it matters. Don' they carry yer magic too? Don' it pass through yer stirring rod an' into yer potions? Almos' like some other magical conduit ye use?"

"Oh." Harry frowned thoughtfully. "So…eleven inches, then?"

The man swiftly grabbed a stirring rod from the small pile, measured it against his forearm, and immediately sped to the counter, leaving Harry in his dust. "Ye'd better be gettin' a good potions text too," the man threw over his shoulder.

Harry blinked, and chased after the man's back. "But I alrea–"

"Like yer rod?"

Harry blinked. "That's…a fair point."

The apothecary threw two books on the counter next to Harry's purchase. "Skimmin' the Surface an' What Lies Beneath in Potions Theory, and 1031 Brief Lessons in Wizardin' Lore, and ye'd best be glad m' wife's a Potter Spotter. I don' sell these regular-like."

Harry, feeling exactly as if he had just held a whole conversation in which he understood nothing, simply nodded.

"Thanks. I don't quite – I mean, this has been…educational. Really, thank you. I think…um…I don't suppose…How much do I owe you?"

"Four galleons, three sickles an' a signature." The man pushed a quill and parchment towards Harry who signed, confused, and returned it with the right change.

"I'll come again," Harry nodded thankfully, and the man grunted what was probably a reply.

Still feeling like his head was spinning – probably the fumes in the apothecary, Harry told himself firmly – he returned to the _Leaky Cauldron_ where he spent the afternoon sorting through his post and his purchases. He answered his letters swiftly, organised his new purchases and settled in for a lazy night at the _Cauldron_ before losing his freedom the following day.


	2. Good Intentions

By the time Monday morning rolled around, looking far too cheerful for Harry's taste, Harry was ready – if not precisely willing – to return to Privet Drive. He waited until ten o'clock to post his letters, and managed to convince himself it was because he was doing Martha a favour, before resolutely entering muggle London and catching a taxi.

Alighting close by to the children's park near Magnolia Crescent, Harry stood in the sunshine while the taxi drove off.

Distant sounds of traffic filtered through to this peaceful corner of the world, and the shapeless shadows of clouds chased each other over the playground. Trees in the distance rustled familiarly. Harry relaxed.

He'd spent hours in this place over the years. Avoiding Dudley, escaping Ripper, sulking about Ron and Hermione not sending him letters…

He and Dudley had been attacked by Dementors close to here, once. Just by that little alleyway over on the left.

It was close enough to the Dursley's house without actually being the Dursley's house, and he rather thought it was the perfect spot for his experiment.

He looked around. There were no children playing in the park at the moment, and no joggers or dog-walkers at this time of morning either. Briskly, Harry dragged his trunk over behind the metal slide, and crouched down behind it, wand out.

"_Wingardium Leviosa,_" Harry whispered quietly, and watched in satisfaction as a little pebble nearby gently hovered off the ground, eventually rising to eye-level, where it paused in the air.

He let the spell fall.

He waited.

Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened. No owls swooped down from the sky. No sternly worded missives from the Ministry. No Howlers. Nothing.

Harry turned the pebble into a flower pot, for the heck of it. Then he conjured a geranium to put in it. It was pink.

An hour went by, and still nothing had come.

Harry let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding. He had succeeded in that total gamble he had made ten months ago. The Trace must attach to the wand somehow, and since he hadn't taken it on the Express, he was clean. He was completely free from surveillance. It looked like his plans for the holiday were going to succeed. And now he knew that was the case…

Now nobody was tracking which spells he used with his wand…

Harry quickly pulled out his father's Invisibility Cloak and threw it over his head. His trunk faded into invisibility too, and Harry strode off.

A few minutes later he was peering into the front windows, trying to see where Aunt Petunia might be. The distant sound of a vacuum cleaner was whining from somewhere upstairs.

Harry quickly snuck around the house, to the back door, which he quietly opened with a murmured, "_Alohomora_".

Nobody noticed, not even the neighbours in number six, as he crept silently inside and snuck into his cupboard and pulled it closed behind him.

Hearing the rumbling whistle of Aunt Petunia's vacuum uninterrupted upstairs and the sound of explosions coming from the living room telly, Harry assumed that his relatives were too busy to notice the door to the cupboard under the stairs open and close on an invisible housemate. The door closed behind him with the barest of creaks.

Once inside, he straightened a little and surveyed the space. A couple of pairs of shoes, two umbrellas, and some cleaning products had found their way into the cupboard while Harry was gone. He moved them neatly onto one of the empty shelves, and then quickly and silently cast a few spells on the cupboard itself. Petunia and Vernon and Dudley would forget that his little space existed until Harry abandoned again it in a month or so.

Satisfied, Harry then pushed his trunk over into what had become its own, personal corner and, removing his Invisibility Cloak, crept down inside.

He had priorities, Harry told himself firmly, the last remnants of his summer plans being pushed out of his mind. No zoo, no beaches, no holiday day trips. He sat in the chair at his desk and looked grimly once more at the exam transcripts from school. Including his grades for theory, Harry figured he was generally sitting around the 85th Percentile for his year in Hogwarts.

That was pretty bad, considering how well his practicals had gone. He supposed it all averaged out, as Hermione had said.

He slumped forward, holding his head in his hands as he flipped through the marker's comments.

_Missing some obvious comparisons_, his Charms marker told him. It didn't seem like Flitwick; perhaps an apprentice had marked it. Some students stayed on after seventh year, Harry knew, to pursue further study in specific fields. He'd thought Flitwick had a masters student this year. They had done the marking pretty well, Harry thought. The notes continued: _Make sure you understand which family the charm belongs to in order to eliminate easy errors._

On his Transfiguration exam, _Solid understanding of the basics_, was written in McGonagall's handwriting. _Next, include more logical progression of ideas._

A spiky back ink had told him firmly he had, _No comprehension of foundational potions knowledge, _courtesy of Snape. _Start from scratch._

His Defence Against the Dark Arts marker, tentatively Dumbledore, he thought, had simply written, _Marvellous work! _However, knowing Dumbledore, Harry thought perhaps he should go over that too. Dumbledore, Harry was beginning to see, was not necessarily a detail-oriented wizard. There was no need to comment on Harry's History and Astronomy exams: they were his worst.

Harry ruffled his hair in frustration as he looked over his work.

He thought he'd done okay. He'd gotten almost all of the short answer questions correct, and had written quite a lot in the long answer and essay questions too. But from the looks of the comments – he thought he remembered some kind of Charm families, something to do with the senses? – it looked like he'd have to review first year all over again. Again.

Bleakly, Harry pulled out all his study notes for Charms, and the six most helpful textbooks. Then, reluctantly, Harry also hunted down his copy of _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling. To the best of his knowledge, the stuffy little book was so long winded and boring that only Hermione had made it to the end. And possibly Percy, Harry amended.

Harry spread a new piece of parchment flat on his desk and got ready to take notes on the very first spell Flitwick had ever taught them: _wingardium leviosa._ He might not be Hermione, but his future plans – his future – were literally on the line here, and Harry had been accused of being stubborn before. No pitiful little first year spells would be getting in his way, or his name wasn't Harry Potter.

Thus, while Neville spent his holidays pottering around in his greenhouses, while Hermione reacquainted herself with the local library, and Ron realised that he was no longer used to having his mother hover over him all day – he got letters from them regularly – Harry himself kept to a rather strict schedule.

As Monday turned to Tuesday, and then Wednesday, the days of the week seemed to blend. Harry's days seemed to repeat themselves: breakfast in Diagon Alley, study, and Occlumency were only interrupted by the occasional trip outside to tidy up the gardens or whitewash the house when nobody was looking. After the long hours of shutting himself in his trunk, the chance to move his body was almost welcome. Harry wondered if Aunt Petunia had noticed what he was doing.

On a positive note, he was totally undisturbed and fell quickly into a regular routine: study, move his body, study, move his body.

The downside of it all was that his repetitive schedule made it difficult wake up early, and Harry began to lose his drive. Realising the danger, he began to look for reasons to get out of bed.

Ironically, it was his studies that helped Harry in the end. By the end of a long, focused day, study materials and extra textbooks were scattered all over the study, left where they lay as Harry finally staggered to bed. Someone needed to tidy them up, and he didn't have a house elf.

He wondered at the irony of it. Getting himself out of bed to do dreaded chores: piling his dirty clothes in a corner instead of over the floor, returning the miscellaneous study items from the day before were returned to their shelves, hardly seemed the thing to motivate a teenage boy. Making the messes was easy – he knew the library charm well now, and he knew _accio_ like he could do it in his sleep. However, not even the old Hermione had known what charms were cast in the Hogwarts library to return books to their places; Harry had to do all that by hand.

Wake up. Roll out of bed. Collect a pile of books and stagger to his bookshelves to reshelve his texts, blinking as his brain rebooted and came online. The mindless routine was all that got Harry out of his bed in the morning.

Then, once the compartments in his trunk were as organised as was practical, Harry crept out of his luggage and into the cupboard under the stairs. He didn't know how long his muggle-repelling charms on the cupboard would last for, so he redid those every morning, and then, with the feeling that his day was finally starting, his mind finally alert, Harry Apparated into Diagon Alley with a pop.

What with the Dursley's not wanting to think of him, the best way for Harry to stay out of their way was to have meals outside. Now, after a week of regular patronage, Tom was beginning to cook Harry's regular breakfast, full English with butterbeer and a Daily Prophet on the side, so it was piping hot and ready to eat when Harry walked in the door.

He regularly sat at a table in corner of the Cauldon, well away from the floo access and the entrance from muggle London. Mindful of his exaggerated reputation, Harry kept a dark hood up and over his head even while he was eating.

When combined with Tom's willingness to run interference, he found himself unnoticed and uninterrupted as he came to enjoy his new habits.

It was strange, Harry realised some time during the second week of the holidays, that he could so enjoy being alone in public like this.

He'd enjoyed exploring the Alley in his third year, of course, after the debacle of blowing up Aunt Marge. But somehow the freedom of managing his own time here, the lack of adult oversight or money troubles –

Harry cut off the thought. He hadn't worried about money or adults the last time he stayed in the Alley either. So what was different?

Over the course of his breakfast Harry soon came to realise that his first year back at Hogwarts had not been quite what he was expecting either.

Ron, Hermione, Neville were great. They really were. Even if Harry had not quite expected to miss his originals as much as he had.

But, Harry gnawed at his fork, deep in thought, they were young.

Terribly young. All his grand plans and aspirations aside, Harry had found as the year went on that he simply could not bear to throw them into harm's way. He'd avoided the showdown with Malfoy, the adventure with the dragon, the mystery of Snape. There was no bitter enmity, no pushing – breaking, Harry admitted to himself – of the rules, no strange suspicions about adult motivations. Their safety had been more important to him than their old bonds of trust, Harry realised.

Not taking them down the corridor on the third floor spoke for itself, Harry thought. He'd told Dumbledore that himself. They should be safe.

The thought distracted Harry for a moment, a niggling sense of discomfort began rising from his stomach –

Then Harry pushed the thought away. He was thinking.

It was the responsibility, he finally realised. Having his friends follow in his footsteps, unthinking, trusting. He'd had the responsibility to keep them safe from harm all year.

His current lightness, the quickness of his step came not just from making it successfully through his first meeting with Voldemort. It came from the fact that his friends were safe, back in their own lives for now. That he'd kept them protected.

The thought made him feel strangely alone, but he didn't hate it.

He went back to continue his regular holiday routine, and the days rolled on.

His days always began with breakfast in the Alley in his own private corner, with the occasional conversation with Tom. Or his house-elf, of whom Harry had been surprised to learn. But it made sense, now that he thought of it. Tom couldn't possibly be running such a busy inn all on his own.

It seemed the cheerful little chef-elf had good thoughts about him, if the sheer and utter perfection of his meals gave any indication. Perhaps Tom spoke kindly about Harry to his staff.

After breakfast, Tom would give him some pastries in a bag and Harry could leave, heading to the Post Office where he dealt with any correspondence his friends would send him. Poor Martha tended not to get in to work early enough to see him, despite Gladys' best efforts to encourage some kind of friendship between them. Harry didn't feel too guilty about that.

Then, regular as clockwork and with the help of a notice-me-not and Cloak when necessary, Harry snuck out to a private spot and Apparated back to Privet Drive, where he spent the day in study.

It was exactly a week after Dudley's twelfth birthday, just after dinner, when Harry ran into Petunia upstairs on his way to the bathroom.

She shrieked, then clapped her hands violently over her mouth.

"What's going on, Petunia darling?" Vernon called upstairs from his seat in the lounge.

Scowling at Harry in the evening light, she called back to her husband downstairs, "Nothing, Vernon dear. I just thought I saw a spider. I'll sort it out now."

"Of course you will, Pet," her husband called back, and she glared at Harry furiously in the tense and awkward silence.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped at him, so angry her voice shook. "When did you come back?"

"About a week ago?" Harry muttered. "A bit longer? Sorry, I was trying to stay out of your way."

"Don't just sneak into somebody's house like a thief," his aunt scolded. "Has Diddy seen you? Has Vernon?"

"No? Did they say something?"

She shook her head minutely, "Nothing, but I thought you might have the manners to have told someone you were living here again. When do you leave?"

Harry scratched his head. He hadn't been bothering with the Sleekeazy's stuff while he was on holiday, and his hair stood up at all angles. "A few weeks? It's just the bathroom I need while I'm here, I think. I'm barely even in the house, you know."

"See that it stays that way," his aunt hissed. "Look, run along, so nobody finds you here. We were happy with you gone, and they'll be happy if they think it's still true."

"What about my chores?" Harry asked, confused. This wasn't how he had expected anything to go at all.

It was hard to tell in the dark, but Aunt Petunia seemed to pale. "You've been doing them? Without supervision? What have you touched, boy?"

For some reason Harry felt a frisson of disappointment in his gut. "Just the gardens, like always. I whitewashed the-"

"Fool boy."

Aunt Petunia muttered something about the weeds growing slowly, which Harry took to mean his presence was a complete and utter surprise.

Standing in the dimly-lit passage, Harry cringed a little inside as he saw his aunt's hands shaking, her lips pursed tightly and her bony shoulders tight with tension. He'd surprised her, he knew. She was angry.

"So," he interrupted awkwardly, "did you want me to…stop?"

"…Spend some time in the front garden weekday mornings, so the neighbours can see you're still alive," Petunia said with a defeated sigh. "If you get in and out early, Dudders might not even notice you're around. I'll talk to Vernon. Now run off with you."

She shooed him away with her hands, and Harry snuck into the bathroom for his evening shower. A quick silencing spell stopped his relatives downstairs from hearing a thing, and he crept back into his cupboard soon after, feeling strange in the chest.

Was it…dumb, for him to hope that Aunt Petunia would be nice to him now he was staying out of her way? Since they'd never seen magic from Hagrid, never been threatened with pig's tails or magic lollies, he'd kind of hoped that he'd be somewhat more welcome in the Dursley's house.

He thought he had tried to be nicer to them, obliging. Done chores, stayed in the cupboard, been silent and out of sight. Although they hadn't noticed his most recent efforts, obviously.

Perhaps keeping his presence secret had backfired on him, Harry thought. The sudden shock of running into him in the corridor certainly seemed to have left an impression on his aunt. He didn't think it was a good one, somehow.

But he'd stopped costing them money since he left for Hogwarts last year, so his financial burden couldn't be much of an issue any more. Well, except for the water he used for the shower and toilet flush. Perhaps he could bathe out of the house? Were there spells for that? Or he could always settle for a bath in his trunk, Harry admitted. Wizarding plumbing tended to revolve around wand-work: he knew _aguamenti_, he could figure out how to warm bath water on his own. A modern shower was just such a muggle luxury.

Petunia's bitter face loomed large in his mind, and Harry stifled a sigh. Showers were out, it seemed. First thing tomorrow he would go to the Alley and buy a good bathtub. It was worth giving up a few modern comforts if it pleased his aunt.

He should probably buy himself some muggle shampoo with his own money too.

And a…chamber pot? Is that what wizards living out of a trunk used these days? He'd have to visit a few shops for advice.

Fortunately for Harry, as he crept into bed a few minutes later, he had regained his usual equilibrium. The Dursleys may not be thrilled at having him back in the house, but he wasn't the one having to have an awkward conversation with Uncle Vernon about his temporary tenancy. Even if Vernon did react badly – which he would, but still – the muggle repelling spells, and the other protections that he laid on his cupboard every morning, would keep Harry out of his way.

What was Vernon in the face of his future plans, anyway?


	3. Shadows Past

Over the weeks, Harry's studies progressed. His notes became organised – even cross-referenced between related spells and across disciplines! Harry felt proud.

He learned what he did wrong in the Charms theoretical, and then moved on through Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, to focus in on Astronomy.

Not that he expected Astronomy to help him defeat Voldemort, but it was all a part of his plan. A somewhat revised and improved plan than the one he'd come up with a year ago, too.

His early scribbles on the wall of this cupboard, the ones in green crayon, done when he first came back in time, had been erased.

Harry still woke up in cold sweats when he thought about it: travelling back in time, changing things to create a specific future and hiding his plans lest all his efforts go to waste…

What would have happened if someone had stumbled into his cupboard while he was at school, and taken the scribblings seriously?

Dumbledore, Harry had first thought, out of habit. Dumbledore somehow always knew what was going on, had mysterious ways of seeing things.

Then he had recalled with dawning horror that Mad-Eye Moody had once spent weeks monitoring Harry's neighbourhood, using his magical eye to peer, paranoid, into every dark corner in case danger lurked.

Harry had clenched his fists so tight at the time that the quill he was holding had snapped, and then realised – heart plummeting – that Moody had taken him home from King's Cross once. He had _been in the house_ the night Harry turned seventeen. Harry could still vividly recall the guilty, unclean feeling he had felt when he realised Moody had looked into the cupboard. He had wondered if there was still evidence that little Harry had once lived there; if Moody had known who he really was when he was in the Dursley's house, when he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived at Hogwarts.

The shadow of Aunt Petunia's 'boy' had still lingered in the corners of that cupboard; his secret, shameful past enduring, threatening his newly forged self.

Harry had been so afraid that Moody had somehow seen it, seen him; would realise that his wizard-ness, his Gryffindor-ness was just a new façade, and yet now Harry realised that without his sudden, lucky realisation, Moody could have seen his secret notes of his past future too.

Wizards were paranoid about time-travellers, Hermione had repeatedly told him during third year. Whole people could disappear, futures changed, decisions altered. The penalties were harsh.

Harry suddenly wondered what the paranoid Moody might do if he learned that Harry had –

He had cut off the thought. No need to give himself nightmares. Best just fix it. Fix it good.

He'd magicked the marks away in scrambled haste, and then promptly panicked that someone might be able to see the traces of magical energy lingering, and somehow bring them back.

Was that even a thing? He'd have to research energy traces in his free time. He'd add it to the list.

"Wandwork in a muggle house," Harry had imagined Moody muttering in his gravelly growl. "The only wizard a half-trained, under-age lad? Sounds like Dark Wizards to me."

Completely unnerved, it had only taken Harry minutes to Apparate out to Diagon Alley and buy himself a large bottle of _Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. _He had used up half the bottle scrubbing the wall before his heartbeat had slowed and he figured his wand-magic had been hidden underneath the potion's glimmer.

Then he was left with one unusually clean and sparkling cupboard end, and had had to clean the others too, so that his time-travelling cover-up had not stood out.

It was the walls of his third compartment, his most secret and private one, that were now covered in pieces of parchment. Lists of events, of causal relations, of potential actions and their possible consequences now lined the back of the space. Harry's signature messy scrawls covered the parchment: black, blue, green, and red inks meant different things; lines connected his thoughts. If Hermione had made these plans, Harry told himself, they might have been tidier, but he was bizarrely proud of his efforts.

And now they were well hidden in a space you couldn't see unless you were inside it, that no one else knew existed. Except the saleswizard, of course. Who did not know that he had ever sold anything to Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry had never told anyone that his trunk was unusually magical.

It wasn't uncommon, of course. Hermione had bought herself a fancy one, a Ravenclaw-styled one, he knew, presumably when she first explored the Alley and knew she wanted to bring books with her to school.

Neville's was supposed to organise his things for him, although Harry had never seen that being particularly effective.

Even Ron, Ron the youngest son with the hand-me-down everything, had brought into Gryffindor Tower a trunk charmed by Mr Weasley himself. It was larger on the inside than it should have been, Harry knew, although he had never noticed in his first life.

Mr Weasley's magic continued to impress him the more he noticed it.

The point of it was that Harry having a magical trunk would not stand out as suspicious, although his was more expensive than most.

But having a luggage you could _live_ in would stand out, Harry had figured. It would imply he needed to, for example. As if, say, he didn't have a proper bedroom in his own house. As if his family didn't want him in their space.

So he'd kept it secret.

And even then Harry had somehow turned his secrets into layers. The nature of the trunk was secret, so no one knew about his home life. But somehow, he had still subconsciously divided his compartments up into categories: two that people _could_ see, if necessary. His bedroom. His study.

Unusual. Uncommon. But yet never being _unsafe_.

The third compartment, the one that he kept as a storeroom, unorganised and chaotic, the one with the Vanishing Cabinets, was where he somehow just happened to use to hide his secrets.

Now he knew why.

This year the diary would come to Hogwarts, Harry knew. He couldn't give it to Dumbledore this time – that was one of the changes he would make. He wanted Dumbledore to live, after all. Plus…well. He'd made plans, Harry smiled. So he would keep the diary, secret and safe, in the third secret compartment of his school trunk instead.

Emerging from his thoughts, Harry patted the mokeskin pouch that hung constantly around his neck. No one but him could retrieve the keys from the magical pouch. No one but him would ever know that he had a private Room of Hidden Things.

He turned to focus back on his studies. He had ideas. Secrets. No one to rely on but himself, so he had to do better.

He'd be prepared this time.

His self-imposed confinement was unavoidably interrupted the day before Harry's twelfth birthday.

He emerged from his trunk mid-afternoon with a satisfied groan. He thought he might have grown a bit, over the past few weeks. The cupboard he stood in certainly seemed to have shrunk, compared to what he remembered.

Then Harry recalled that he had not lived in the cupboard after his first Hogwarts letter, before, and felt a surge of confusion.

Life: it seemed to be going better for him this time, didn't it?

He took a short moment to take down the muggle repelling charms and returned the cupboard to the condition is was when he had arrived. Once he left there would be no evidence that he lived in the house at all.

With a satisfied nod and a silent _good luck_ to the few brave spiders that had colonised the corners of the cupboard, Harry locked the luggage lid securely, and pulled it upright as he leaned over to open the door.

A small creak sounded as the door swung open, and he stuffed his compartment keys safely back into his mokeskin pouch. Slipping it back under his shirt, he patted it lightly, just to confirm it was secure.

If Ron had been here, original Ron, he would have teased Harry terribly about turning into a second Mad-Eye. Personally, Harry was beginning to think Moody may have had a few points.

He'd almost lived out the Second Wizarding War, hadn't he? Moody would have been fine if he had kept to his principles and not become a decoy for Harry.

Harry shook the bleak mood off with a shake of his head, and forced himself back into the moment. He'd made this trip back in time partly for Moody, obviously. He needed to up his game; stay focused.

Then, Harry stepped out of his cupboard to hold what he hoped would be a civil conversation with his aunt.

He approached her in the kitchen, as she finished up her regular scrub down of the flooring: the house would be spotless again by the time Dudley and Vernon returned in the evening. Her yellow rubber gloves were squeaking slightly with her movements, and her blue summer dress was bright and cheerful, yet Harry couldn't help but feel the whole house was faded and drab. He wondered briefly if his eyes were going funny from too much study.

Harry watched her silently for a moment, scrubbing a stubborn patch of invisible dirt under the kitchen table, before clearing his throat awkwardly. Perhaps Dudley had trekked mud in over lunch? Her body jerked in surprise at his quiet cough but she did not look up.

"Aunt Petunia," Harry tried, as she tensed at his presence.

She paused for a long moment, not yet setting her sponge down.

"...What?" She huffed, apparently realising that Harry was not going away.

"Do you have a minute?"

After a further frustrated pause, Petunia sat back and finally met his eyes. The little lines around her eyes and mouth deepened as she scowled, but she consented to direct her attention reluctantly on him.

Harry was not surprised that she did not encourage the communication, and so he simply inserted himself into the conversation with bluntness.

"It's been more than a full month," he began. "And I've slept under your roof every night. Thank you for hosting me."

The woman looked at him speculatively.

"You're leaving then."

"Yes," responded Harry. "I've fulfilled the conditions for this year. I've tried to stay out of your way. Are you happy with how it's turned out?"

He was certainly happy to leave.

While he was thinking this, a complicated play of emotions flickered over his aunt's face for a moment.

"Vernon's been pleased," she allowed finally. "Dudley hasn't mentioned you once. Did you stay in the cupboard the whole time?"

Harry smiled.

He couldn't say that it had been the kind of holiday he longed for, but there was a sense of accomplishment now that he had reviewed his first-year studies completely. While his compartments weren't large, they were a good sight better than the cupboard space proper. Petunia still had no idea that he'd been breakfasting in, and walking through, Diagon Alley daily.

Harry had no idea what Petunia thought he had been eating.

Aside from the chores he still rushed through each morning so the neighbours could see him and Petunia's garden looked neat, the family were barely aware of his existence. It was quite possible that Vernon actually hadn't seen him at all.

He knew for a fact that Dudley hadn't.

Just how they all liked it.

So while he hadn't had the experiences and adventures he'd quite had planned, Harry nevertheless felt like he had made good use of his time. He was proud of himself, and all the fun times in the world suddenly looked less appealing in comparison.

Harry felt his smile grow.

If Petunia thought that Harry's grin was a bit too twisted and self-satisfied for her taste, she probably assumed that it was due to his managing to avoid pulling his proper weight in the household under their usual militant supervision. Why, he hadn't cleaned anything inside the house once!

She glanced around the kitchen, confirming Harry's guess, before returning her attention to the scruffy boy before her.

"I think," Harry began delicately, "Dudley forgot I exist. I made sure a couple of the neighbours saw me, I've been seen to be healthy and around the house," he spared a thought for the eccentric Mrs Figg, "so I think I've covered everything, and I'll do the same again next year. I just wanted to let you know I was leaving."

Aunt Petunia may or may not have muttered something that sounded like 'good riddance'.

Harry looked at his aunt, kneeling there in the kitchen of her sterile, muggle home and wondered if she was happy. She must have some spark of joy and passion inside her, being related to Lily. He cocked his head slightly to look at her, and readjusted his grip on his luggage.

"Aunt Petunia." After an awkward little pause, Harry ventured to continue the conversation, half wondering at his own sudden impulse. "I was wondering, do you…Is Dudley around today?"

She was apparently deeply displeased by Harry attempting actual conversation, and tossed the little sponge back into her bucket, huffing again as she did so.

"What do you want?"

"Oh," Harry scratched his head and leaned to settle his school luggage firmly on the floor, providing him with a little more comfort.

"It's just, we've never really spoken about, um, family. I was wondering if you had anything of…y'know, things I might have inherited lying around somewhere?"

"Your parents left you with nothing." She sniffed.

Harry stuttered. "Oh, I – uh, I was wondering…Old school stuff? Photographs, maybe?"

"Anything worthwhile that your parents owned was wasted by them, or destroyed," Petunia snapped.

"Sorry," Harry shuffled where he stood. "It's not just my mum – sorry! – but even, maybe you could tell me about her parents? My…Gran? Nan? What would I have called my grandparents?"

Petunia eyes him in suspicion and her eyebrows lowered in a disbelieving frown.

"What is it you are after?"

"Honestly, just to know them," Harry muttered. "We've never really spoken about it, and I, well, I obviously don't have too much family."

Petunia snorted.

"I'm curious."

With a huff, Petunia pulled herself to stand upright, apparently fed up with her unwanted nephew looking down on her.

She put her hands on her hips and spoke sternly, staring strangely over Harry's shoulder to look out the window behind him. She wouldn't meet Harry's gaze. "I don't know what it is that has given you the, the courage, the _audacity_ to skive off your chores all summer and then demand favours of me like this. My mother and father were perfectly respectable people and deserve to rest in peace, not pulled up like some kind of payment you think I owe you."

"I don't, really," Harry protested, his own forehead creasing. "I just thought –"

"You didn't, clearly."

Harry pushed on. "Look, I just want to know them a bit. I don't know what you've told Dudley – "

"The time and affection that I give Dudley has nothing to do with – "

" – but I don't know anything about them! What were their names? What were they like? Did they look like mum? Did they look like me?"

Petunia spoke heavily. "My parents were perfectly normal, respectable people with local friends and proper jobs. They had very little in common with you at all."

"Did," Harry asked, "did they ever meet me?"

Wearily, Petunia sighed, her gaze drifting quickly over Harry's own. "Why this sudden interest?"

"I've always wondered," Harry protested. "You've never mentioned anything to me. I've got a right to know, don't I?"

Petunia huffed again, and then turned to begin picking up her bucket of water, reaching in to pick up her sponge and squeeze out the water. Clearly, she wanted the conversation to be over.

"Look," Harry protested. "I've stayed out of your way all summer, and I've done chores – they still count! – done chores while making sure that Uncle Vernon and Dudley still didn't see me. Can't you just…tell me their names, and a few short stories, and maybe show me some photo albums?"

"Now we hear it," Petunia scoffed. "First it will be photo albums, and then it will be little trinkets. The inheritance my parents left me is going straight to Dudley; anything you got through your parents will be with their things."

"But you said – "

"Your parents' lack of responsibility is none of my business."

"But Aunt Pet–"

She stopped. "We do not owe you anything. You have come into our home and our lives. You have taken our money, our time, away from our son. You have replaced our safety with, with connections to freakish people, and dangerous nonsense. How can you possibly think that a few hours gardening during the holidays put us in your debt?"

Harry gaped, his mouth working soundlessly as tens of arguments forced their way up his throat and got stuck there.

"I, I, I thought…but you…I've been trying…"

Aunt Petunia scoffed. "You're only staying here until you go away and live in _that_ world now, aren't you? You belong with them, not us."

Harry stood in silence, clenching his fists, and then carefully, slowly, he unclenched his hands and pressed them against the sides of his thighs.

"Off you go."

The woman sniffed and sneered and waved him away with one rubber-gloved hand, and Harry took it as his dismissal.

Picking up his luggage, Harry turned and walked out the front door with firm footsteps, and directly entered into the taxi waiting to take him and his trunk to Charing Cross Road.

There was no need to look back.


	4. Possible Progress

Tom welcomed Harry into the Leaky Cauldron that night with warm food and a comfortable room, but to his great irritation, Harry slept fitfully.

He'd been getting on with Aunt Petunia recently, with their long-standing and successful mutual agreement. To be fair, mutually agreed-upon avoidance was perhaps not the most positive of foundations for a relationship, but he thought he'd been making strides forward.

Thinking positively.

Looking back on his first timeline, his past, Harry had to acknowledge that he had not been the easiest of teenagers to live with. Most aunts and uncles certainly didn't have to worry about guests giving their son pig's tails or four-foot tongues. They didn't have to worry about nephews getting angry and blowing up aunts, or being told they're harbouring someone hiding from death threats.

More mundanely, having strange adults coming up to their children in public insisting they were safe and just wanted to "touch the wee lad" – or shake his hand, or whatever Diggle and his like would have asked for – in hindsight, would probably have been disturbing for most parents, not just Dudley's.

So he'd made such an effort to be reasonable, to not shout, or blow things up, to do what he was told and avoid the arguments.

He'd avoided using their money, stopped eating their food, refrained from contesting Dudley's second bedroom. He hadn't asked for anything, really.

And now...

Had Aunt Petunia felt that way about him all along?

He'd been unwanted. He knew that.

He'd also been a passing visitor, apparently. Rationally thinking, Harry could admit to that too. He certainly had no one waiting for him to come back from Hogwarts, no one to live with in the muggle world.

What else he had to do to respect his mother's memory, to pay back the Dursleys for taking him in, Harry didn't know.

But still, there had been years of effort, endurance. Years of hiding his face, saving his tears, years of needing to be strong. Did that not count for anything?

The whirlwind of thoughts, the flurry of barely seen emotions, kept him awake all night.

The bleak mood followed Harry over the following few days. Waking, the atmosphere of his room seemed heavy. With his current temper, Harry felt that he wasn't even able to do justice to Tom's magnificent food. Exploring the Alley, Harry found the witches and wizards were frustrating and ponderous as they cluttered up the cobblestones with their slow steps and mindless chatter. The weather was certainly doing what it could do perpetuate his mood; the constant hiss of light drizzle seemed to muffle the sounds of the alleyway every time Harry stepped outside, and why were the other pedestrians insist on bundling together in the middle of the street instead of clearing the way by finding a dry space elsewhere?

Even in the privacy of comfort of his own room, Harry found, his studies were less an intellectual escape from the frustrations of the outside world, and more a series of mental challenges designed to dazzle and baffle him.

There was no sense of triumph when he finally connected the logic of the last of his first-year theories, catching up to where he needed to be; Harry merely wondered why it had taken him so long – eight years, if he wanted to look at it that way – before realising such simple principles.

Harry's shoulders literally felt burdened by the sense of oppressive depression.

Adding to his stress, Harry found himself compulsively doodling little mind-maps on spare parchment; they were scaled down versions of the timeline he had mapped in his luggage compartment with more details, some of which were probably wrong. The tension hanging over him, and the looming sense of doom, had Harry instinctively brainstorming for more details, more knowledge of the future. Then realising the problem, he had to hastily burn them into ash. His memory had improved, his Occlumency was progressing grudgingly, but the insistent reminder that he _did not yet have a Pensieve_ meant that Harry was not _sure_ that his timeline was progressing as it should.

And there were so many ways to ruin his plans, the Ministry of Magic discovering his time-travelling being only the worst.

Harry thought he was in control, he was pretty sure that he had done all the important things, but he could not confirm that until he knew what the timeline was supposed to look like.

No matter how eventful his original youth had been at the time – Harry felt the pressure of time pressing on him these days – the daily grind of his first timeline was seven years ago. The details he remembered were fuzzy at best. Who knew what significant changes he would cause to his plan due to tiny changes?

Setting the latest of his accidental doodles alight, Harry thought back optimistically to the parchment on his third compartment walls instead. That would probably be enough. He hoped.

The lack of certainty left him twitchy.

He destroyed two of his better quills because of the nervous habit he had somehow developed these holidays; the quill nibs snapped, again and again and again, filling Harry with further frustration.

His conversation with Petunia hovered irritatingly close to the front of his mind, always returning whenever he had a free moment. Despite it being no particular surprise – he'd never been wanted, he knew that – Harry had been hoping to make progress, to make a difference since he had returned to his past.

Was it working?

So much seemed out of his control, spiralling Harry further into an emotional tailspin, and he studied with desperate frenzy, controlling what he could.

At his desk, the long afternoon seemed to turn into an inordinately long evening, and finally he pushed aside his studies for another of Tom's famous meals. Trying to rise above the oppressive frustration, Harry determined that he had lasted through another long and theoretically productive day. It didn't feel like it, but he had probably continued making progress on his learning. He was trying to read ahead into second year now: Hermione would be proud.

At least, Harry thought as he crawled into bed and turned out the light, he always remembered the events of his birthdays.

The distant sounds of London traffic were barely audible as he pulled the covers up over his head and turned to go to sleep.

When Harry woke up the next morning, he was twelve. Or twelve again, Harry pondered, choosing to eat in the privacy of his room to maintain his tentative state of privacy. The significance of the day was not lost on him, and he finally threw off the persistent sulk – yes, he could admit it – that had been hovering over him for days. Harry wondered as he chewed if there was any particular emotion that he was supposed to be feeling, on such a noteworthy day. No presents had arrived overnight, for once.

Which was obvious, without Hedwig…

Errol, Harry determinedly thought, would have been redirected to the Post Office. Hermione had been in contact when she could, of course, but neither of them had access to an owl. He supposed Ron might have loaned her Errol too? Of course, they weren't that close this timeline yet, Harry remembered. Perhaps Neville?

Having finished his usual meal, Harry basked in the warm beams of light streaming in through his window. It wasn't where he would _ideally_ be on his birthday, but he had no particular complaints. Plus, he had that plan, of course.

Even without a Pensieve – and goodness but didn't he wish that particular purchase would arrive soon – Harry had clear memories of what to expect of the day.

Vernon's dinner with his rich clients, the unfortunate drill order, Dudley's teasing barely featured in his mind. Harry was worrying about Dobby.

His mail had been uninterrupted this year. Hermione, Ron, Neville and even Hagrid were all in frequent contact with him, thanks to his premium contract with the Post Office over summer.

His daytime, thought Harry, should be relatively quiet. Tom had been good about keeping people away from him while he stayed in the Cauldron.

Fortunately, Harry was used to being alone on his birthday. And no Dursleys, the thought cheered him up. Contemplatively, Harry decided that his day would be simple. There was no dinner party to ruin, and the underage Trace that should have been on him was properly confounded by his optimistic plans of last year. Would Dobby even still find his way to Harry's room?

Harry's expectations of a quiet day were overturned when he wandered in the Post Office shortly after breakfast, and his box of mail was opened in front of him. To Harry's astonishment, brightly coloured packages in various sizes and shapes came tumbling down from his allocated cubbyhole and into the waiting Gladys' arms. Even when her arms overflowed, packages kept coming, skipping off the pile and clattering onto the floor.

Harry gaped at the multicoloured wrapping paper in surprise.

"What's this?" Harry wondered. "These are…? Um…Where did these come from?"

"Gifts from your fans," Gladys told him, beaming. She turned to pour her armload onto the counter and bent to pick up the ones that had fallen. Her voice drifted up from the floor. "I spoke to my boss about your mail wards, remember? And being who you are, he thought we should go the whole hog. We updated all your mail wards this summer, recast the whole lot, don't you know."

Harry quickly thanked her for the fuss; it had worked, after all. Then he turned his attention back to his mail. His birthday presents.

"But why?" he wondered. "No one's ever sent me presents before."

Gladys shrugged. "Couldn't get to you, I guess. The owls would have been turned back afore we redid everything. I mean, who knows what sort of folks would have done you harm as a baby. You were hidden really well for your safety, I guess, y'see? A whole bunch of people would have given up over the years, don't you know. But that doesn't mean everybody gave up. People still remember what you've done, you know. This is just a small expression of gratitude from a few."

Harry felt like he was waking up from a long sleep, and was therefore still not thinking clearly at all. Gladys kept talking about owl wards, and keeping him safe, but Harry was still stuck on the knowledge that his fame was…this famous.

"Even after all this time?" he wondered. "Eleven years later?"

"Someone thought your wards need to last this long," Gladys pointed out, "and wizard folk have long memories," Gladys pointed out. "It comes with the long lifespans, I suppose. Wizards and witches have learned to love living, and their prospects under You-Know-Who weren't very good at all. I told you about my parents, didn't I?"

Had people really been thinking of him like this all his life? Harry wondered how he'd never come across this before.

It would have been Dumbledore, he supposed, who had put the wards up. It made sense, like with the Longbottoms, what with wizards like Barty Crouch Junior around. Which raised the thought…

"Are they safe?" Harry rushed out with a jolt.

Gladys finished loading the counter up with his presents and smiled. "The Owl Postal Office prides itself on our professional conduct and secure services. We screen for dark magic," she assured Harry. "Now, tricks and traps that might be more subtle? It's probably worth checking just to be sure. Of course," she hurried on to reassure him, "I don't know anyone who'd want to hurt you, you know? You're Harry Potter, after all. We're all wishing you a happy birthday."

With a blushing face she took a small, neatly wrapped package from out of her robe pocket and added it to the top of the pile, and smiled bashfully. "Many thanks."

Harry stared.

A few minutes later, Harry had managed to shove all his new gifts into the pouch he still kept around his neck, and collected his post from his friends.

Gladys had chatted at him the whole time, Harry knew, but he'd been more astonished by his other circumstances and could only hope that he hadn't been rude.

When the door tinkled closed behind him, Harry found himself outside in the morning light, still catching up on the new thoughts that had been thrust his way.

It wasn't just the Rita Skeeter who thought he was news, Harry realised in fractured shock. Real people, family people still thought of him too.

The reality of his fame had never sunk in before. The Daily Prophet articles, the Ministry interest, the rest – that was only scratching the surface.

He felt a bit bad about treating the Owl Post people so superficially before. He'd made a difference to them, the thought slowly sunk in. Gladys' mum and dad. Martha's in-laws. It wasn't just his parents' story. Real people were alive and happy, and thought they owed something to him.

Still distracted, Harry wandered up the Alley alone.

Meandering past the shops in the Alley, Harry kept his hood up, keeping his identity hidden. He'd had no idea that people had been thinking about him, after all. Well, not like that. Who knew what other attention he might draw?

His mind unsettled, he realised that he couldn't go back to his room to study. There were too many thoughts swirling in his brain for Harry to focus on anything important.

Harry shrugged.

His birthday was a good reason to have a day off from study, after all. Plus, he might as well enjoy the day after the break in his terrible mood. After a trip down to his Gringotts vault, and a new pair of shoes, Harry found himself at a loss of what to do.

He was half-heartedly making his way back towards the Leaky Cauldron when he was struck by a thought. Eeylops Owl Emporium. Harry hesitantly considered buying another owl…but no. On Privet Drive he had no windows for an owl to use to stretch its wings. And it felt like desecrating Hedwig's friendship somehow. He simply couldn't claim she was an irreplaceable friend, and then…replace her.

Her loss was a lesson to him, a reminder of what he had to lose.

That settled his thoughts: he could not bear it if another pet died because of loyalty to him. Eeylops Owl Emporium had bitter memories, and he wouldn't buy himself anything. The pet shop however? There wasn't any harm in just visiting.

He stepped up to the door of the Magical Menagerie with a deliberately cheerful air.

There was a pile of fluffy kittens by the door, and Harry took a moment to pick a little tabby one up, and give it a cuddle.

He was busy scratching behind its ears, fending of its brothers and sisters in the meantime, when a small spot of stillness and solitude caught his attention.

A tiny ginger bit of fluff sat at the other end of the kitten enclosure, staring stonily out the window at the passersby. Was that a young, kittenish Crookshanks he saw?

Harry gently disengaged the tabby's claws from his robe as he leaned over to get a better look. Yes, it was! There was the strange, squashed-looking nose and those funny, frowny eyebrows.

Crookshanks as a kitten! Harry grinned. He could already see the distant, grumpy attitude that made him so memorable. To Harry's amusement, he knew immediately why Crookshanks had not been bought as a kitten before.

"Just wait one more year," Harry whispered to Crookshanks quietly, as the other kitten he held rolled over and begged for a tummy scratch. "You'll be chosen by an awesome person. You'll see."

Crookshanks turned away from Harry in disgust. Harry shrugged. Hermione would be by and fall in love, and the two would be happy for ever. It wasn't his fault if the half-Kneazle was a cynic.

Out of respect for the Crookshanks in his memory, he kept trying to chat, however. He had to send the hopefully shop assistant away three times – "No, I'm not looking to buy today, thanks" – and had lost count of how long he had been in the shop before he ran out of promises and coaxes to tell the part-Kneazle.

He thought he'd made progress with the grumpy little kitten, or so Harry managed to persuade himself, before the suspicious looks from the staff drove him out. He thought Crookshanks' ears were slightly pointing his way – he was positive he'd seen a twitch or two – and Harry leaned into the enclosure to scratch the kitten between his ears. Then, having spread his affections between the other six kittens who seemed to enjoy his warmth, Harry withdrew his hand and left.

He felt a little lonely leaving the shop to return to the solitude of his room. Hedwig had been his loyal companion all the way through his lonely holidays before. No matter how much he tried, this timeline would never be quite the same.

Having pleasantly passed an hour, Harry spent the rest of the morning shut up in his room at the inn, where his happy mood drifted away like morning fog. There was nothing to do, he thought, frustrated. He unwrapped the gifts from his friends, and piled the rest in the third compartment of his trunk. He didn't know the right spells to check them, after all.

His replies to his friends' letters took him less than half an hour, and after servicing his broomstick and polishing his wand, eventually Harry was driven to study his new textbooks, purely for lack of anything better to do.

After a light lunch, he found himself with time for a nap in his room before dinner. A stubborn sense of frustration was growing within him. Harry wished futilely that he could leave the Alley on this day of all days, but the looming threat of a house-elf assault, in full view of the muggles of London, compelled him to wait, restlessly, in his room.

A few hours escape to the closest cinema looked more and more attractive, but Harry kept himself to merely pacing the floor of his room.

Finally, a quiet pop and rustling sounded from behind him.

Harry turned around.

Standing before him, a nervous looking house-elf clutched his pillowcase tightly at the front of his chest.

Dobby's big green eyes gazed straight at him, large, wondering, nervous and apologetic. The small elf bowed deeply.

"Harry Potter!" Dobby exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir…such an honour it is…"

Harry, after a moment of nostalgia, spoke quickly, "Dobby the house-elf. It's nice to meet you too."

Dobby, who in this timeline had never spoken to Harry before, immediately bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, shocked to be identified directly.

"Harry Potter!" he exclaimed, his squeaky voice rising in surprise. "Harry Potter, sir, knows Dobby? Such an honour, sir, that a great wizard such as yourself is knowing Dobby's name!"

His eyes filled with tears, and the creature bowed low again, and then again and again.

"Harry Potter is a great wizard, sir. To think that Dobby can meet Harry Potter...that Harry Potter is calling it _nice_…" The poor elf seemed to be working himself into a frenzy. Harry quickly cut him off.

"I'm pleased you've come, Dobby. Please, sit down, so we can talk comfortably."

Dobby's luminous green eyes blinked at him, apparently lost for words, before the creature burst into loud, hiccoughing sobs.

Harry, having expected this, waited patiently for the fit to pass. Finally, the elf made his way to the indicated window seat, muttering praise under his breath.

"Dobby has been invited to sit! Dobby has _never _been asked to sit and visit with a wizard. Harry Potter sir is greater and more good than Dobby had heard."

Having arranged themselves comfortably, Harry once more took charge of the conversation.

"Assuming that you have been told to keep secrets," he began without preamble, "would I be right to guess that there's a loophole allowing you to confirm any guesses I can make about why you're here?"

Struck by this opportunity, Dobby cocked his head in thought, before eagerly confirming.

Harry continued.

"And we can do this without you needing to punish yourself?"

Dobby's amazement showed. "...Harry Potter's kindness and wisdom is great indeed...worrying about a mere house-elf like Dobby..."

Harry pretended not to hear.

"Then, first, I think that you are the house-elf of Draco Malfoy's family, correct?"

Dobby nodded dumbly in surprise.

"And you are bound to them forever, unless circumstances can be arranged where one of the family gives you clothes?"

Loudly, Dobby gasped. "Clothes, Harry Potter, sir? It is a great disgrace…but perhaps…" With a sudden hiccough, Dobby leaped off of his seat, and charged straight into the hardwood panelling that decorated Harry's room. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Such insolence is never being seen in all the Malfoy elves for generations!"

Harry winced at the loud crashes and bangs Dobby's head was making against the walls, and slipped off his own seat to grab Dobby by the arm. "Hey! Enough, please stop that!"

For a few moments Dobby failed to realise that his small body was being held back from the wall by Harry's hand; he continued to run, head bowed, towards the same spot. Being held firmly by Harry's worried grip, however, meant that instead of a painful impact into the wall, Dobby simply reached the end of Harry's reach and flopped somewhat wildly in a small parabola. After missing the wall three times, Dobby paused to realise what had happened.

"Harry Potter, sir!" he wailed. "Such kindness Dobby does not deserve." His wild actions curtailed, Dobby instead reached up his bony hands to take a firm grip on his ears, and twisted sharply.

"Oi!" Harry spoke sharply. He plans were put on hold for five or so minutes, as he wrestled wildly with Dobby's small but wiry body. He reached firmly towards Dobby's hands, intending to guide them away from his elf-ears. Dobby twisted away. Harry yanked sharply. There was a sharp scuffle as Dobby found his hands removed from his ears and clamped closed by Harry's larger ones, and then they both lost their balance and toppled loosely to the floor.

"Hold it," Harry gasped. "Don't –"

"Bad elf!" Dobby scrambled to rise.

"Just hang on!"

"Naughty, naughty Dobby!"

"Hey –"

Finally, he had Dobby's limbs pinned under his superior body weight. As they both took a moment to absorb this, Harry realised at this moment that he had just done a stupid thing; Dobby had never had any trouble overpowering Lucius Malfoy when he actually wanted to. Harry had risked being magicked by a surprisingly powerful creature. Then again, overcome by gratefulness and awe, Dobby had probably avoided using magic against Harry on purpose. Or perhaps his thoughts had been otherwise occupied.

"Don't hurt yourself like that," Harry scolded, and Dobby's startled eyes met his for a moment.

Harry was feeling moderately smug about his triumph – both Dobby's hands secured, his self-inflicted punishment interrupted – when a sudden _thunk_ arrested his thoughts; Dobby had discovered that he could ram his head into the floorboards.

It was another ten minutes later that Harry and Dobby found themselves back in their seats, Dobby gasping slightly, and nursing a slight bruise over his left eye – house-elves were resilient, after all – while Harry cradled a sprained wrist and a throbbing head, and a spot on his jaw-bone slowly darkened to purple.

They had just regained their seats when a very confused Tom knocked on the door to Harry's room and poked his head in.

"Everythin' alright here, Mr Potter?" he asked, and then his startled eyes tracked between Harry and his small guest. "I'll, ah," Tom murmured, "I'll just bring you up some hot chocolate then, shall I? Carry on."

"Two, please," Harry mumbled around his numb jaw, and soon he and Dobby were both nursing a steaming hot mug.

Back on track, Harry picked up his conversation again. He chose not to mention the clothes thing again.

"Um," Harry mumbled, "I won't mention…the _thing_…anymore. Let's just move on…um…Drink your drink!" He spoke quickly to anticipate another outrushing of guilt from Dobby, and watched with eagle eyes as the house elf took a tentative sip of his drink and subsided into calmness.

Harry hoped Dobby didn't realise that he had technically just fought with a wizard. It was probably against some house-elf code of conduct. He moved the conversation on.

"So, while bound to your household magically, with everything that that implies, you personally care about my survival and that of the wizarding world?"

The shell-shocked house-elf nodded, the tension in his body releasing slowly due to the warmth and comfort of his drink and, presumably, Harry's inability to act as Dobby had expected. Clearly overwhelmed, the little grey creature settled into the chair, apparently content to let Harry lead the discussion.

Harry promptly continued to confirm Dobby's wish for freedom, his respect and care for Harry's own health, and the potential dangers at Hogwarts for him in the year ahead.

Harry pursed his lips.

"I suppose, since you say Hogwarts will be unsafe, one option would be for me to avoid the school this year," he offered. "Perhaps stay in Diagon Alley, hide out from the Ministry, and let Dumbledore deal with the danger?"

Dobby drew in a deep breath, "Dumbledore is a great wizard, sir. The greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Harry Potter should stay safe and let Headmaster Dumbledore protect him!"

He finished his little speech triumphantly, only to deflate as Harry gazed steadily at the creature, gently shaking his head.

"It won't work, Dobby. The teachers and the Ministry will come looking for me, and take me back anyway. Adults like keeping track of me, you see."

Harry rushed on before Dobby could speak up again.

"As it happens, I think I might know what you are worried about. Could you confirm? Lucius Malfoy is going to sneak a dangerous dark artefact into the school? Does he know what it will do? Has he mentioned a hidden chamber? A deadly creature that will kill the muggleborn and half-blood students?" Harry dropped his voice significantly. "Something that is _not quite You-Know-Who_?"

Dobby's eyes grew larger and larger, and words spilled rapidly out of his mouth. Harry was obliged to pause for another collection of heartfelt compliments.

"Despite my current knowledge and understanding about the danger, would you feel tempted to stop me going to Hogwarts at all this year?"

Dobby froze.

Harry took one look at his guilty looking face, and sighed.

"Dobby," he began. "I want you to promise me that you will not try to stop me from going to school, or try to frighten me away at all during this year. _No punishments later_," Harry raised his voice, "I want you to promise me now and keep that promise, and I will return your trust by promising you something in return."

Dobby had clearly been building himself up to something, but once more subsided.

Feeling that he had built up to it sufficiently, Harry finally offered Dobby the deal he had previously worked out: one year of watching over Harry and keeping his secrets, and Harry would destroy the Malfoy's plan.

"I could try to buy you, or something?" Harry concluded. "Do wizards sell their elves?"

Pathetically grateful, Dobby nonetheless shook his head. "If a family be unhappy with their elf, Harry Potter, they is simply shaming him by setting him free. If a family is not unhappy with him, they is not releasing him. Ever."

Harry did some kind of quick maths in his head. "I'm a distant relative of Mrs Malfoy," Harry offered. "Would that make a difference? I mean, if you're unhappy there, then surely…"

"Harry Potter is a wonderful wizard," Dobby replied. "Harry Potter should not worry about me."

Harry drained his mug dry. "Then I'll simply have to trick them into freeing you some other way."

Deep in Dobby's eyes, a flicker of hope warred with his enduring pessimism. Clearly, life as the Malfoy house-elf had made Dobby cynical.

Harry sweetened the deal.

"You can come and visit me during the year, and we can discuss the dangers," he offered. "I am happy to swear an Unbreakable Vow to you that I will free you if you let me go to school without trouble."

But he had miscalculated. Instead of seeming pleased, Dobby stared at him silently in shock, great pools of tears welling up in his eyes.

"Harry Potter is a great wizard! Harry Potter is willing to offer his life for his promise! Harry Potter is treating Dobby...like an _equal._" Nonplussed, Harry stared at the flustered elf.

"Er...is that a yes, then?"

Dobby turned him down flat.

"Harry Potter must not be treating house-elves so, sir. Dobby would be a bad elf to let Harry Potter do it." He sniffed. "Dobby does not need a Vow, sir. Dobby is owing Harry Potter for life."

"Nonononono!" Harry blabbed. How had it come to this? "I just meant to make it so you could trust me! You don't owe me anything! I wanted you to believe I will keep my promise!"

Before him, the house-elf clumsily dried his eyes and stood up. Despite his long, rattling sniff, he managed to draw himself up to his full height with something like dignity.

"Dobby is never dreaming a wizard would offer such equal honour to an elf, sir. Harry Potter is giving Dobby a wizard's honour, sir. Harry Potter is trying to _share equal magic with an elf_. Dobby will be telling the other elves, sir! Dobby is repaying Harry Potter with his life! Dobby will remember Harry Potter's greatness, Great Harry Potter sir."

With great care, Dobby stood up, gently placing his half-empty mug on the corner of a table.

Then turning back to Harry, he bowed low once more, folding so deeply that his long nose actually met his knobbly knees with an audible thud, and disappeared with a crack. Suspiciously, the floor length mirror creaked as Dobby disappeared when Dobby snapped his fingers, and a long, jagged crack appeared in its glass.

"Oh deary," the mirror moaned. "That's seven years of bad luck, the old tales say."

Harry, left in startled silence, gazed blankly at the floor where Dobby had stood and wondered who the bad luck would cling to. As a suspicious feeling of cold dread began to collect in his gut, Harry shook himself sharply and waved his wand to fix the mirror with a sweep of his wand.

Somehow, that was not where he had thought the conversation would go.

He pondered the conversation, weighing Dobby's comments, and slowly came to the conclusion that Dobby would do one of two things.

Either, Dobby would fulfil Harry's request, allowing Harry to attend Hogwarts uncontested, _or_ he would try to protect Harry even more enthusiastically than before. Was the mirror an accident, or Dobby's attempt to repeat the trifle incident?

For all of his efforts and planning, Harry concluded he may not have achieved anything he wanted today at all. Fortunately, there was no letter from the Ministry, so Harry could at least relax about that.

Harry considered his usual luck.

He massaged his temples firmly. What a headache.

It was early, only eight o'clock, and he had not had dinner, but Harry went to bed immediately.


	5. Still a Lot to Learn

To Harry's relief, no letter from the Ministry arrived over the next few days. Tom, though, looked at Harry very curiously indeed whenever he came into Harry's room, although he never outright came and said anything. He continued to ferry his delicious meals Harry's way to where Harry remained bunkered down in study.

Finally, Harry said something to break the awkwardness. "Tom? I don't suppose you know, uh, but I thought, maybe? The house-elf that was in here a while ago, he cast some magic on the room. How does that work with the Trace on me?"

Tom's curious look faded into a friendly chuckle. "A question like that betrays your upbringing, young Harry. You be careful who you ask things of, if you want to maintain your privacy. You know, bein' who you are, an' all."

He nodded at Harry significantly, and Harry nodded back, wide-eyed.

"For any Hogwarts student with a house-elf – or adult wizard, similar problems there, of course – in the household, the Ministry assumes that any magic picked up by the Trace is cast by them. Not the student, I mean," Tom clarified. "The other. It's a rare thing to see a house-elf do magic, o' course."

"Eh?"

"Well, obviously," Tom put the stack of Harry's plates down again, and settled back into a comfortable stance. "House-elves do the hard labour in a house: scrubbing, cleaning, polishing, cooking, you know the type."

Harry knew all too well what kind of heavy labour a household drudge might be called on to perform, but didn't want to side-track such a fascinating conversation.

"Gardening?"

Shifting his weight, Tom leaned against the wall and absently wiped his hands on his apron while he thought. "Well, I have heard o' a family or two who claimed it, now that you make me recall for it specifically. It's not common at all. Not at all. House elves are widely understood to be unable to leave the house, o' course." He gave Harry a significant look.

"Oh," Harry mumbled. "And they, ah, don't they have magic to do that?"

Tom tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, I'm sure you know now that there's magic and then there's _magic_, y'know? Wizards have their _scourgifies _and cleaning spells and whatnot, but we tend to use applied potions to actually clean things."

Harry thought suddenly of the market for _Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover_, and remembered you could buy polish and cleaning solutions too. If a spell could do it for free, then why…?

Tom continued. "Spells and all could do it for free, but they lack control, see? You might clean up your spilt soup, or you might accidentally remove the floor wax, or the _Stop-Slips_ charm you put on your tiles. Scrubbing with a good linen cloth dunked in a bit o' potion is generally much safer all around. They're formulated specially."

"I guess…"

"You'd never use _Mrs Skower's Magical Mess Remover_ for daily household cleaning, for example."

Harry, who had done just that, twitched. "You wouldn't?"

"Well, o' course not," Tom stopped leaning against the wall, and began gesturing with his hands. "It removes _magical messes_. In a magical house, it could cause the exact same kinds of complications that spellwork could. Want to clean out your kitchen sink? A bit o' scrubbing with that, and _poof_! Your enchanted plumbing stops working and you have a hole in the basin. Want to clean your robes? Pour a bit o' that on them, and the colour-fix charms dissolve. Not to mention the seams." Tom added darkly. "Nah," he continued, "you'd want _Winky Crockett Elbow Grease,_ and an enchanted washboard for those, respectively."

Harry reached over to his small pile of unused parchment, and jotted the names of those products down quickly. Tom watched on in amusement as Harry then gnawed bit the tip of the quill a bit longer, before scrawling Tom's further advise down in full.

But Harry was still a bit confused. "I thought house-elves were specialised in that sort of thing though? Isn't that what their magic evolved for?"

"Evolved?" Tom pursed his lips and frowned. "Young Harry, you're a good kid, but I do think you need to be careful who you mention your strange muggle ideas to. I'm just an average wizard, nobody special, so I'm alright. In fact, I'm safer than most: I literally am the gatekeeper."

"Gatekeeper?"

Tom _oofed_ as he repositioned himself on the wall and looked at Harry sideways. "I run the gatehouse between our world and the muggles." He sighed. "Perhaps you're a bit young for politics. But you do need to know this: be careful what you say, young Harry. You would mortally offend some of the old families if you mentioned magic _evolving-like._" Tom gazed around Harry's room like there was someone hiding in the shadows, then whispered loudly, "These muggle fads, whatever natural philosophy is in ascendance at the moment, they aren't real popular around here."

Natural philosophy. Harry only kept his mouth shut until he could place the term, but Tom had mistaken his thoughtful nod as agreement and moved on.

Smiling, Tom straightened again and continued the conversation. "Now house-elves, of course, aren't well understood by most wizards anyway. But no witch or wizard would want anything just magicking their way around a household and causin' damage like that. House elves are just a might stronger than your average witch or wizard, and they enjoy the hard work. They're stronger than they look, the wee buggers."

Harry, having accidentally wrestled Dobby not so long ago, could only agree. He'd had to buy Bruise Balm to get rid of the tenderness in his jaw, and didn't that rather prove Tom's point?

"So Dobby's magic didn't get caught by the Ministry," Harry theorised, hoping his lack of the Trace wasn't obvious, "because I'm living in Diagon Alley at the moment?"

"Exactly. Although I'd like to know how and why and house-elf could visit you in the first place – don't tell me!" Tom interrupted Harry's barely formulated sentence. "I don't want to know any time soon. Some old, powerful family would be furious if they found out they had a rouge elf. I'm staying right out of it for the time being, and I recommend you do the same."

"Right," Harry nodded. "Of course. Thanks very much." He'd been given quite a lot to think about.

Tom collected the plates again, and left Harry to his musings.

After that, Harry kept himself busy studying his second-year books for the rest of the holidays, until the highlight of school break arrived. One Saturday morning, Harry found himself alighting from the Knight Bus with a gasp; he had been organized enough to plan an overnight ride, and foolish enough to actually climb on.

His stomach began settling down as he stumbled his way up the path towards their front door.

Little Ginny Weasley answered his knock with a squeal.

"Mum, Mum, Mum! Harry Potter's at the door!" Harry, having fondly fixed in his mind her no-nonsense practicality in Dumbledore's Army and beyond, was somewhat startled when the door was slammed in his face and her footsteps scampered away.

After a moment, distant voices reached him from inside the house.

Apparently, his future girlfriend had run straight to her mother, and was now unable to showcase their newest visitor.

"Well, why didn't you let him in, Ginny? Did you leave him in the hallway?" Mrs Weasley's scolding voice echoed from the direction of the kitchen.

"Muuuum," the child's voice whined. Then she paused. "Um...not exactly."

There was silence from inside the house as Harry imagined Ginny explaining the complex truth to her mother in whisper, before Molly Weasley's footsteps moved towards the front door in some haste.

She pulled the door back open sharply, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Harry! Good to see you – Ron's told me so much about you this year. Don't mind Ginny," she added with an exasperated smile. "She's just a little star-struck. She'll get over it. But come, come on inside, don't be shy!"

Harry waved away her concerns and followed her into the very familiar kitchen.

It was small and cramped, with the wooden dining table taking up most of the space in the room, heavily laden with breakfast. Stacks of toast and sausages and fried eggs piled high in front of Fred and George, who seemed to be half way through their meal.

Having just taken what looked like a rather large mouthful of food, Fred merely waved cheerfully in Harry's direction.

"Morning Harry!" grinned George from beside him. "Have a seat." He gestured at the table. The piles of food continued down the table. Tall, porcelain jugs that looked like they held juice balanced precariously between more piles of food. A big bowl of porridge took up the centre of the table, next to the milk and the brown sugar. A plate heaped with crispy bacon sat close by.

"Help yourself," Fred added, swallowing. "Whatever you want, I'm sure we've got it somewhere."

Harry was inclined to believe him, and found himself a chair in the corner and spooned himself some porridge. There were raisins in it.

Mrs Weasley leaned over to replenish the fried eggs, and Harry realised that Ginny had meanwhile mysteriously disappeared.

"How was your trip, dear?" Mrs Weasley asked kindly, as she poured Harry a drink from one of the tall jugs. "I thought I heard the Knight Bus stop?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted, nodding thankfully. "It was…a pretty short trip, I suppose. Nice and quick."

She smiled at him, her cheeks ruddy and pink. "That's a kind thing to say, dear. Maybe next time we can teach you how to use the Floo."

"That'd be great, thanks," Harry murmured with heartful gratefulness. Not that he didn't know how to use the Floo, but he was trying to keep his wider experiences of the world a secret. If the Weasleys thought they had taught him how to use the Floo network, next time he wouldn't need to suffer through the Knight Bus experience.

He continued on eating, swallowing another spoonful of porridge before reaching for the bacon.

From where he sat, Harry was amused to see the feminine ankles of Ginny Weasley pacing, barely in sight, on a landing up the stairs. Absently listening to the breakfast conversation while he chewed, Harry watched her wander back and forth and wondered if she would work up the courage to come back down the stairs and join him for breakfast.

He was distracted by a scraping sound from the kitchen fireplace, and looked back to see Mr Weasley step through the fireplace and peck his wife on the cheek.

"What a night, what a night," he sighed, wearily straightening his back. "Morning Molly. Another four raids last night, and I couldn't slip away. Hello Fred, hello George. Oh!" said Arthur, blinking in surprise. "Who are you then? You're not one of mine."

Harry was careful to swallow, then grinned. "Hello Mr Weasley. I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you."

"And you too," Arthur nodded back, then wearily sat himself down. "A spot of tea would be lovely, thanks dear."

"Did you find anything?" Fred asked eagerly.

"Just a few more shrinking door-keys and an exploding toast machine," Mr Weasley shook his head. "Somehow muggles use _eckeltricity_ to make their toast, and someone's going around charming them to explode the toast in their faces. Not hugely harmful, but very petty muggle-baiting." He accepted the hot cup of tea from his wife, and paused to drink.

Harry watched interestedly as Fred and George pestered their father with questions, and Mrs Weasley continued to ferry food onto the table.

"Harry dear," she interrupted. "Have some sausages and egg. You're too thin, you need to eat more. Could you wake up your brother, boys?" She glanced over at the twins. "Ron will be excited to know that his guest is here."

Amused at the impending chaos, Harry watched on as Fred and George slipped from the room, and waited with great anticipation for the loud crashes and bangs he knew would soon follow their departure.

Sure enough, a rousing commotion suddenly erupted from overhead. Shrieking and whizzing and huge bangs rattled the household, and copious amounts of dust dropped from the kitchen ceiling as it shook. Mrs Weasley vanished the dust before it reached the breakfast table with what looked like a well-practiced air. Then the fireworks settled into a series of cheerful, crackling pops before fading out.

Then there was silence, broken only by Ron's creative cursing that drifted down to the listeners in the kitchen.

Mrs Weasley tutted. "Watch your mouth, young man," she called. "And what have I said about letting fireworks off inside? If I come up there and see any more fire damage we _will_ be having words!"

The twins strutted back into the kitchen after a long moment.

"Uh...nope. No damage at all," one of them grinned. "Except for – "

" – ickle Ronnikins," the other continued. "And that barely counts since his head – "

" – is quite empty already. We might have to work on that sulphur smell though."

To Harry's surprise, the next person to come down the stairs was a slightly shell-shocked looking Neville.

"Morning Harry," he greeted him cheerfully. "How're your hols going? Morning Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley. Ron'll be down shortly."

The table descended into relative silence, as more of Mrs Weasley's food was consumed. Finally, heavy footsteps sounded down the stairs and a grumpy looking Ron slouched into the room.

As he pulled up a seat and helped himself to the food, Harry saw the burgeoning bruise develop on his temple that would explain his mood. But Ron's scowl lightened as he ate.

"Harry, mate," he finally looked up, somewhat belatedly. "Good to see you. How's it going?"

It felt so familiar Harry could almost pretend he was home.

The day continued peacefully, with Harry volunteering himself to help Mrs Weasley de-gnome the garden for nostalgia's sake. And since she wouldn't accept his offer without her own sons getting some work done, soon all six boys were standing in her garden with their sleeves rolled up.

It inevitably into a competition to see who could toss the leathery creatures the furthest.

Sadly, despite his previous experience and recent good nutrition, Harry found himself lagging behind the others as they whirled and tossed the grumpy gnomes over the hedge. He and Percy apparently shared a similar lack of competitive drive, and watched with detached amusement as Ron, Fred and George battled for total dominance. Neville was the most surprising of the group, keeping up a steady stream of throws that consistently made over 30 feet.

Perhaps, Harry concluded with interest, it was his superior technique. He spent some time trying to furtively copy Neville's smooth movements, but found himself lacking the particular coordination that was apparently necessary.

They cooled off with a quick dip in the pond, which was pleasant for all of them for about five minutes, until Neville had an unfortunate encounter with a duck that they all promised never to mention again.

Fred and George promptly returned to their room. They were inspired, Harry suspected, to create some kind of prank item that would probably sell suspiciously well. Judging from Neville's lack of interest in the twins' sudden absence, Harry decided he probably hadn't quite worked Fred and George out for himself yet. Harry himself decided to leave Neville to enjoy his blissful naivety a while longer.

As for Harry, Ron and Neville, they went on to have a rather surprisingly quiet day. Lunch was another feast, but then they entertained themselves with Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess, perched comfortably up in Ron's bedroom. Ron, having thrashed both of his friends in two consecutive, very quick chess games, at first sat and commented on their moves when they played each other. Then, having been scolded into silence when he criticised too harshly, he entertained himself by sorting through his collection of Chocolate Frog Cards. Harry was mildly interested to discover that sometime during the year, Ron had reduced his collection to 423 cards, by swapping his extras for Agrippa.

Everything was interrupted shortly before dinner when Hermione arrived with her parents, having somehow found the address on a muggle street map and driven all the way.

She scrambled out of the car, and was met at the door by a smiling Mrs Weasley. First Harry, then Neville and Ron joined them moments after.

Harry watched keenly as Hermione then introduced everyone to her parents. He knew her parents, obviously; he'd seen them before in the other timeline. But he was trying to be more thoughtful about these things, so he watched them climb out of the car carefully.

Mr Granger was a tall man, on the skinny side, with a long face and barely any hair. He seemed like a nice enough man, if rather perhaps quiet. He shook hands genially with Mrs Weasley and nodded to the boys politely, but didn't really say much himself. Harry couldn't see many similarities between him and his daughter at all. Mrs Granger, on the other hand, was clearly where Hermione inherited her hair from. She coped with it by forcing it back into a very tight bun, and only a few, desperate stands near her forehead managed to escape into a small halo of auburn frizz. She was a more social person than her husband, with lots of smiles and small talk as the adults moved into the house together. She stood very straight and moved her hands a lot when she spoke, and Harry thought he could see more of Hermione in her.

But, as the crowd moved from the entrance to the dining room, Harry began to grow more confused. Perhaps the magic was putting them off their usual game?

At first, Mrs Granger very confidently suggested that she help Mrs Weasley in the kitchen, and Mrs Weasley very mildly pointed out that Mrs Granger didn't know the right charms. Then she offered to set the table, and Mrs Weasley waved her off, "That's very kind of you, but we don't bother about doing these things manually Mrs Granger – "

"Please call me Emma."

" – Emma then. It'll just take a moment." She waved her wand, and Harry watched in confusion as Hermione's mother shrunk back against the wall and watched wide-eyed as the plates and cutlery sorted themselves out in a moment.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs Granger, looking rather pale. "It's just like that animated film, Hermione. How did that song go? Be our guest? Do you have singing candlesticks too?"

"A fine idea!" Mr Weasley jumped in, looking terribly excited. "It's always possible. Let's see, do you just want sound? Or a whole simulation of some kind? It's been a while since I tried out that waltzing charm. I could always – "

"Not now, Arthur," Mrs Weasley warned from the kitchen. "Perhaps if there's time after dinner. Hermione dear, it's lovely to meet you. Are you well?"

"Yes thanks, Mrs Weasley," Hermione stopped her conversation with Neville and stepped forward politely. "Thank you for having me over."

"Perhaps Ginny or one of the boys could show you where to put your bags," Mrs Weasley suggested. "GINNY!" she bellowed suddenly. "Where is that girl? You'll be staying with my youngest, Hermione dear. She'll be joining you at Hogwarts this year."

"WHAT?" Ginny called back from upstairs, and there was a bit of a fuss as Ginny had to run downstairs, and into the kitchen, where she promptly met Harry's eyes and tripped over nothing. She had to sort herself out, and there were introductions all around, until suddenly they were over and Ginny could collect Hermione and her bags and take them all back up to her room.

Mr and Mrs Granger made polite, generic small talk the whole time. Harry wasn't quite sure what was so confusing about them, but they didn't seem to have Hermione's strong personality at all.

Finally dinner was ready, and Mrs Weasley called all her children to the dining room. Everyone shuffled around good-naturedly until there was room for them all at the table, and they could dig in.

The contrast between the Weasleys and the Dursleys could not be greater. Organised chaos swept through the room: rowdy jokes, piles of extravagant food and boisterous good cheer filled the crowded home to the brim. Mr and Mrs Granger seemed to relax: eating was a very muggle thing too, Harry realised, and the awkwardness of before seemed to disappear. The noise drifted up into the evening, and the occasional sudden vibration caused more small clumps of dust to drift down from the corners of the ceiling. Harry wondered if the family's ghoul was also joining in with the fuss.

Aunt Petunia's calorie-counting and sterile home-making skills paled in comparison, and he allowed himself to luxuriate in the raucous warmth. As he had told his aunt only twelve months ago, he hoped he could leave there forever before his fifteenth birthday. Or thereabouts, he admitted, circumstances permitting.

But he didn't want to think gloomy thoughts at the moment. The adults at one end of the table were finally relaxing and chatting easily. Fred and George, down the other end, were holding court. Harry almost snorted gravy out of his nose when he noticed the bug-eyed and intimidated look on Neville's face, as the pudgy boy grew more and more overwhelmed by the twin's discussion.

He had to pause a moment to recover his mouthful, and when he looked up, quiet little Ginny caught his eye. The instant that Harry realised that she had been staring at him, Ginny realised that she had been caught, and she promptly turned lobster red and knocked her plate off the table and onto her knees. Casserole splattered across the floor.

There was a moment's scramble to get everything sorted out so the meal could continue.

Then just when Harry was beginning to feel pleasantly full, Mrs Weasley jumped up and cleared the table, only to replace the food with an equally impressive array of desserts.

Even Hermione and Neville looked a little overwhelmed at this, let alone Hermione's parents, but the table settled down once more for some more delicious food, and the noise went on into the night.

Eventually dinner drew to a close. Ginny dashed off red-faced, Fred and George disappeared before they could be caught to help with the dishes, and Percy formally requested that he retire for the evening.

Harry and his three close friends – led by Harry, who felt most comfortable doing these things – removed themselves to the kitchen to wash and put away the dishes while the adults moved into the living room and chatted over tea.

Beneath the cheerful sounds of water splashing and plates clinking, the voices of the adults in the room next door floated very clearly into the kitchen.

"We've heard a lot about Hermione from Ron," Harry overheard Mrs Weasley tell her guests. "She must be a very bright girl. Did that make it easier when you got your Hogwarts visit?"

Then Ron laughed beside him. "Charlie used to give me lessons, you see," he explained to Neville. "So I'm aiming to get on the team once Wood retires."

Harry shushed his friends a little to listen in on the other room. What was the process for normal muggleborn students? He'd never really thought about it.

Mrs Granger replied with a smile in her voice, "We are very proud of her, she works very hard at her school work, but…it was still a shock," she continued, "hearing all about it. I don't think anything could have mitigated that for us."

Mr Weasley agreed. "Muggles don't have anything like magic, I suppose."

"Utterly out of our area of expertise," Mrs Granger agreed. "We did not know what to think."

"Dentists tend to be very logical people, you see," Mr Granger murmured with a chuckle. Harry strained to hear.

"Of course!" Then he flinched from Ron's strident voice, right in his ear. "I fly with Fred and George too! I might not be Harry, but I'm much more experienced than most, I would think."

Hermione scoffed, while Neville murmured something soothing quietly.

"Guys," Harry hissed. "Settle down."

"So, you had no idea?" In the next room, Mr Weasley's voice sounded like he was conducting a long-awaited interview, eagerly enquiring. "You never suspected your daughter was magical until you were contacted?"

"Well…" said Mrs Granger, "Hermione has always been an unusual kind of girl. She stood out so much from her peers already that a little accident here or there was never really obvious."

Then: "I'm quite sure we barely saw you practice last year," Hermione spoke firmly, startling a glance out of both Harry and Neville.

"Well, I'm good enough not to lose control of my broom," Ron retorted. Neville flinched and Harry scowled, stopping his scrubbing to listen better to the adults in the room next door.

"Mmmm." It sounded like Mr Granger was nodding. "Such an outstanding girl, we tend to let her do her own thing."

"Hermione has always self-directed her own learning," Mrs Granger rushed to add. "Reading ahead, studying up on strange things. She practically taught herself algebra, you know. Her teachers were terribly impressed. Goodness knows it's not from either of us."

"I was under the impression that dentists were very highly qualified?" Mrs Weasley sounded puzzled.

"Well, in comparison to some, I suppose," Mrs Granger's voice dismissed. "But Hermione tends to work significantly above her year level. Dan and I were always good students, but nothing so outstanding."

Mr and Mrs Weasley made polite noises. Harry could just make their voices out, over the rising crescendo of Hermione and Ron standing next to him.

"Well, congratulations on being a more experienced flier than a girl who discovered levitating brooms just twelve months ago!"

"You could have done something though, couldn't you!" Ron snapped back. "But you hid in your library like the swot that you are. Were you scared?"

Neville fluttered his hands uselessly. "Guys. Guys? Uh…Ron? Hermione?"

Harry put down the wash rag in his hands to snap, "Guys, I'm trying to listen!"

There was a pause in the squabble.

"So how did Hermione take the news about Hogwarts then?" Mrs Weasley's voice asked comfortably.

Mrs Granger's voice seemed confused. "Honestly? She seemed to jump on board and embrace the concept of…paranormality…relatively rapidly. I suppose she had more data than we did. Once that Professor McMonagal person took her to your shopping district and Hermione saw the bookshop, she was sold. Dan and I are still catching up ourselves." She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Harry noticed that Ron and Hermione had picked up again, hissing at each other quietly but with increasing tension.

Her husband picked up the conversation. "We're still not quite sure what it's all about, to be honest. But Hermione seems to have everything sorted. She read all her textbooks, and asked all the questions. We learned to stop holding her back years ago. If this Hogwarts stuff makes Hermione happy, we trust her to know what she's doing."

Mrs Granger agreed. "That Professor McMonagall seemed like a reliable, professional sort. And Hermione tells us that your Headmaster person is some kind of internationally renowned expert. So it all seems like she's in safe hands."

"Hermione's got it all sorted." Mr Granger repeated quietly, and there was a little moment of silence.

Next to Harry, "Well, I'm not the one casually insulting his friends!" Hermione snapped.

Ron growled back. "What, can't take the heat, Hermione? You're such a girl!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Congratulations Ron. You've completely forgotten about how Neville might feel while you get all self-righteous telling me I'm a failure for not liking brooms. Well done, you're a magnificent friend."

"Don't turn what I say into things I don't mean – "

"But I'm not the one saying 'Only a real wizard' – "

"I obviously didn't mean Nev– "

"You literally said – !"

"Will you STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY– "

"Enough." Harry stepped between them, his right hand – still covered in soapsuds – drawing his wand with deceptive speed. His friends gaped at him in surprise and made no noise, staring at his furious scowl, and the wand that was suddenly _very present,_ in some kind of awed respect.

He spoke sharp and clipped. "Absolutely no more." He stared the squabbling pair down. "Ron, Hermione's just arrived and her muggle parents are in the room next door. She didn't have your upbringing and she didn't need to. Do you want her parents to think you hate muggleborns – or muggles? Hermione, you know what Ron's like. He takes Quidditch seriously and he doesn't always watch what he says. Do you have to jump on him all the time?"

His two friends protested. "But Harry – "  
"But Harry nothing," he insisted. "This argument is ridiculous. You could upset both of your parents, you've already upset Neville, and you've stopped me from listening to some very interesting information. You are above this," he declared.

Harry turned back to scrubbing a dinner plate, and tried to pick up where the other conversation had got to. Ron and Hermione subsided in sullen embarrassment where they stood, leaving Neville to collect the newly damp plates and dry them with a tea towel. Harry barely noticed Neville's flustered, awkward movements – the plate slipped from Neville's fingers, Harry's Seeker hands absently grabbed it before the plate hit the floor – while he listened out for Hermione's parents' voices. Had they got to the part where they explained the muggleborn initiation to the magic world yet?

Wherever the conversation in the next room was going, it had clearly got there, because Mr Weasley's voice had changed, sounding chipper and interested as he spoke in delight.

"But you're Muggles!" He exclaimed, obviously. "Please tell me all about your postal system. How _do_ you get it to work without the owls?"

And after a moments surprise, the Grangers rejoined the conversation and the mood in the other room picked up. Hermione returned to drying the dishes with Neville, using angry little jerks to do so, and Ron continued to return things to their cupboards.

Harry and his friends wrapped up the dishes – the mood still stiff – and went out to join the conversation themselves, mugs of hot chocolate in their hands. The conversation opened up to include them, and slowly drew Hermione and Ron out of their moods, to Harry and Neville's relief.

The tone of the evening picked up a little with Mr Weasley's stories, and by the time the Grangers made noises about leaving, Hermione looked comfortable enough to smile genuinely at their goodbyes.

They stood outside the front door of the burrow, waving as the Grangers stepped away from the door. Mr Weasley, slightly over-excited by the muggle presence and his after-tea tipple, was tipsily shooting small charms into the air as they all saw the Grangers senior back to their car.

Mrs Weasley waved the car off with a smile, then rounded on the children. "Well, you've had a big meal, and done a wonderful job on the dishes – thank you very much, all of you. But it's much later than we planned, and so it's off to bed you trot. Harry dear, where would you like to sleep?"

Hermione disappeared up the stairs to Ginny's bedroom, and Neville and Ron could be heard thundering up a few more flights of stairs until they reached Ron's room just under the attic.

Harry's friendship with Ron and Neville warred for a moment with his common sense: he'd seen the size of Ron's room.

"Would Percy mind me?" He finally asked.

Minutes later, Harry slunk quietly into the older boy's room, where he surprised Percy at his desk, and they set up his cot in a corner.

After a few stilted comments about regular sleeping hours and assurances that he was "no real inconvenience, you have been a good influence on Ron, after all," soon Harry was tucked up in bed, the dim light at Percy's desk not keeping him awake at all.


	6. Summer Lessons

Harry woke early on Sunday morning, well before the rest of the household was awake, and lay in bed staring at a stain in Percy's bedroom ceiling.

It had been a month full of surprises, he reflected. Ginny's personality, Tom's advice, Dobby's unpredictability. Harry was not able to tell whether he truly thought he had keep the timeline safe for his plan, or if he was merely hoping that he had. But either way, Harry was secure in the knowledge that he had his second year at Hogwarts sorted. It rather took the pressure off him, and now he had the mental headspace to start considering other things.

For example: enjoying his holiday. Harry had nothing urgent to do during this one week at the Burrow, so he lay in his cot and relaxed until he heard Mrs Weasley potter down the creaky stairs and begin clattering around in the kitchen.

Craning his head carefully, Harry checked to see if Percy was still asleep. Judging by the slow breaths and strangely child-like face as he nestled into his pillow, Harry judged Percy was probably not going to wake any time soon.

That being the case, Harry slowly raised himself from the cot without the help of his wandlight, and fumbled around the bedroom, groping his way towards his trunk in the dim grey light of the morning.

Softly, silently, Harry snuck down into the compartment of his trunk to change without disturbing anyone, and then edged out of the small room to trudge down the creaky stairs, intending to go to the kitchen to help with breakfast.

Ron would probably mock him when Mrs Weasley mentioned it to him later, but Harry was trying to change himself. Helping out was the kind of thing Hermione might do, after all. Plus, it was a learning opportunity.

He stepped quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he could see Mrs Weasley poking about in the cupboards. She seemed from the back to be calm and relaxed, probably enjoying the strange, silent solitude of the morning even more than he was.

"Morning Mrs Weasley," Harry said.

She jumped. Then she spun around. "Oh, goodness Harry. You're much quieter than my children! What a shock for my poor old heart. Don't you go telling my twins now, or we'll never hear the end of it."

Harry felt she had a point.

"Now," she continued, removing her hand from over her heart and beginning to bustle around the kitchen space. "What can I do for you, dear? You're a bit early for breakfast, I haven't even started cooking yet. A nice spot of tea, perhaps?"

She poked at the element underneath the kettle with her wand, and a cheerful fire sprang up.

"I thought I could help," Harry offered, realising belatedly that in a kitchen without electricity he might not be much use. "My aunt and uncle are muggle, you know. I don't really know how all this kitchen stuff works for wizards, but I'm sure I could help."

"Well Harry dear, that's very kind of you. But I wouldn't want to put you out?"

Harry insisted, and soon Mrs Weasley had him laying out the plates and cutlery.

"What next, Mrs Weasley?" Harry asked politely.

Mrs Weasley smiled at him. "Normally I do the eggs about now, dear. How do you feel about that?"

"Eggs?" Harry was confused. He used to cook eggs for the Dursley's breakfast all the time. You did them last. What kind of eggs did she want to cook that needed to be done now?

Mrs Weasley reached around a corner and deposited a wicker basket in his hand.

"Maybe our clock can help you out," Mrs Weasley smiled. "Take a look and tell me what you think."

Harry clutched the basket tightly and gazed up at the kitchen clock. This wasn't the family clock, with all the names on it. This clock only had one hand. Currently, it was pointing to, "Time to feed the chickens".

It took a moment for Harry to realise what it meant.

"Er…"

Mrs Weasley seemed to feel sorry for him. Harry wondered bemusedly what kind of face he was making. "It's alright dear, everyone has their first time sometime. How about you come with me then, and I'll show you how to do it."

She stepped through the kitchen door and into the back garden. "We keep the chicken mash here; I fixed it up last night so all we need to do it shake it out today. You'll notice our hens just wander all over the place, but I know where they like to lay their eggs, and we'll nip in and help ourselves while the chickens are feeding. Have a look under that bush over on the left…"

Harry followed Mrs Weasley around the garden, following her directions. He'd never really looked at the chickens before, as they generally ran around doing their own thing. However, now that Harry was holding the basket and rummaging around their nests, he realised that they could move very fast indeed, and unexpectedly too.

Mrs Weasley was kind enough to pretend she didn't notice Harry twitch whenever a chicken rushed his way, and after five minutes Harry even managed to forget about the phantom, stabby pains around his ankles, where he first imagined the chickens might peck him.

It seemed strangely quick and efficient after the fact, and soon Harry found that the basket was full and Mrs Weasley was once again bustling about the kitchen. This time, she was clattering around with pots and pans. A big, copper cauldron hung over the fire, and the water in it was soon bubbling away merrily.

"Shake the oats into the pot for me Harry, won't you?" Mrs Weasley asked, "And give it a stir, there's a good lad." Harry got the porridge started while he tried to stay out of Mrs Weasley's way.

It was incredible watching her move around the kitchen. She had economy of movement down to an art.

The fire in the stove was on and the stove top had warmed up, so Mrs Weasley threw a handful of sausages and bacon into a pan without looking.

As another pan was placed next to it, Mrs Weasley opened her pantry and sliced off a few chunks of butter with a couple of twitches from her wand. Another twitch, and they flew out across the kitchen, some into pots and frying pans, two into little ramekins. The ramekins themselves spun out into the air with a twirl – Harry ducked – to land at each end of the table, near where the toast would soon be.

Tomatoes and mushrooms were soon sliced and landed sizzling in the empty buttered pan. Her wand still darted around, levitating milk from a large jug into smaller pitchers for the table; orange juice also coursed like a ribbon in the air, from somewhere in the pantry, into a carafe for the meal. Her right hand waved her wand with all the control and magnificence of a famous conductor; with her left hand Mrs Weasley shook the pans on the stove.

Hot sizzling sounds and cooking smells wafted through the room, and Harry swallowed as he found his mouth watering.

Another wave of her wand, and Harry watched in amazement slices of cheese peeled off a larger block – two, four, eight, before he lost count – and spun their way over to a plate on the table.

A full loaf of bread appeared from somewhere within the pantry while Mrs Weasley's back was turned – Harry had no idea how she'd done it – and as soon as she turned around to eye it, it fell apart into slices which zoomed directly onto toasting forks to orbit around by the open fire.

Harry had to take a step back to make space for the hovering toast, but otherwise stood by his cauldron of porridge and stirred it with the ladle quietly. He had thought it was intimidating standing next to Hermione in the library, but she had nothing on this!

Did all witches cook this way? Harry's newly developed study habits twitched, and he determined to buy himself a household hints book. There had to be something, didn't there?

Yet to Harry's confusion, while Mrs Weasley seemed to have lots of food preparation to do – and so superbly, too – it didn't seem like the quantity of food would meet the needs of a horde of Weasley sons.

Harry blinked as the pile of sausages seemed to double, new sausages popping into existence at the top of the stack. The eggs, still in their basket, seemed to inhale, shrug and swell in size to double their volume. Three different colours of jam expanded over the top of their respective preserve jars, and dolloped wetly into a series of porcelain jam dishes – yet the preserve jars never got emptier. Curious, Harry leaned forward to peer around Mrs Weasley's body and looked eagerly to the bacon. He was leaning in, trying to spot what Mrs Weasley was doing with her wand, when a handful of raisins got thrown in his face.

"Oh my goodness, Harry! I forgot you were there." Mrs Weasley apologised profusely. She stopped her whirlwind of movement to pat his face gently with one hand. "Not injured too badly, I hope. Now, if any of my boys could keep as quiet as you do…Here, could you throw these into the porridge for me and give it another stir?"

Harry stepped up to collect the new raisins in his cupped hands, then carefully poured them into the cauldron over the fire.

"And perhaps you could carry these sausages to the table? People will be down any minute. Oh, good morning, Hermione dear. How did you sleep?"

Hermione, her hair running rampant over her head, blinked in the early morning and smiled their way.

"Morning Mrs Weasley. Morning Harry. I smelt breakfast."

"Any moment dear," Mrs Weasley called back, already returned to her cooking. "Just pick a seat, toast's on its way. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?"

Harry hovered awkwardly between returning to the kitchen to get in Mrs Weasley's way, or giving up on his self-assigned role and joining Hermione at the table.

However, soon Mrs Weasley chased him kindly out of the kitchen. He joined Hermione at the table, and they began self-consciously filling their plates, before being joined by Mr Weasley. Then George bounded down into the kitchen, with Fred scrambling down the staircase soon after, and his feeling of displacement disappeared as it seemed the household was awake for the day.

They were still waiting for the others to join them – Harry knew how much Ron liked sleeping in – when a thought occurred to Harry and his mouth moved before he thought.

"Mr Weasley," he began, "Ron told me you work with bewitched objects and cursed things?"

Arthur Weasley beamed at him. "Wonderful news, Harry. I always thought Ron thought it was a somewhat boring position. How magnificent to know he's been telling you about it."

"The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office?" Harry queried.

"I do indeed. Why do you ask?"

"Well," began Harry bashfully, "I merely thought that you must have a lot of experience with detecting dangerous enchantments. And danger that isn't enchantments – strange ingredients, hexes and curses, that sort of thing."

Percy clattered down the stairs at this point, and set about filling his plate. The table was noisy: the twins teasing their mother, Hermione greeting Percy, the kettle boiling again, so Mr Weasley had to raise his voice to respond.

"How fascinating you've realised that," said Mr Weasley admiringly. "Most of my boys think I do paperwork, strangely enough. Not that they're entirely wrong, of course, but then working for the Ministry is more complicated that you might think."

Percy looked up sharply to follow the conversation.

"Goodness," said Harry, noticing when he did. "I thought it would mostly be organising things, networking…along with the vital functions of running the country, of course."

"You're not wrong," Mr Weasley admitted, "but that's only scratching the surface. People who go into the Ministry thinking that get eaten up and spat out."

Harry shot a glance at Percy.

Mr Weasley continued cheerfully. "Politics, Harry, is a dirty great beast you should never turn your back on. It's all about compromise and fighting your way up. Not all the enchantments I do are aimed at the muggles, you realise."

"Eh?"

"Oh yes," Mr Weasley nodded. "We're an independent old lot, British witches and wizards, we are. Generally we tend to do our own thing and damn th– , yes dear, sorry Molly." Mr Weasley met his wife's eyes shamefully, and took advantage of a mouthful to pause. "We tend to do our own thing, and, er, leave the rules to other sorts. Not much call for a centralised government, of course, unlike the poor muggles. I suppose you'd know all about that, Harry?"

"Not really?" Harry quirked his head. "You mean, like muggle Parliament?"

"Exactly," Mr Weasley beamed, as he buttered another slice of toast. "Muggles need their societies to survive: they have a different economy, apparently. Molly has a second cousin who knows all about it." He waved the jam knife excitably. "Why, I've heard tell that they think our economy is run on what they call 'Cottage Industry' principles, as if their version is somehow more advanced." He shook his head in bafflement. "As if _needing_ a government to give stability to its people is somehow preferable. Barely any muggles produce 'Cottage Industry' so their government has to look after them in other ways. Controlling businesses and industry and whatnot. Wizards don't need that kind of management, of course. But I'm getting off topic. Where was I?"

"The enchantments?"

"Oh yes," Mr Weasley beamed at Harry. "Sometimes I have to…you could call it building fences, between the wizarding world and their muggle neighbours. Stop a muggle dog wandering onto his wizard neighbour's property where he'll eat the dirigible plums: floating pets always cause a panic, I can tell you. But other times, I'm called to help out the wizards down the hallway: cursed letters, booby-trapped mail, weather indoors; you wouldn't believe what wizards do to other wizards. So I tend to run around with my wand a lot, putting out fires." He laughed. "Sometimes literally. Then I try to enchant against that for next time, but of course that's a job that will never be done. Our Ministry is all about serving the individual wizard, when you get right down to it." He nodded cheerful to the table at large and then took a large swig of tea.

Percy put down his toast. "But, I presume, the higher calling of the Ministry, the purpose of the government remains to direct –"

"So you might think."

"But the _Prophet_ always said –"

"As it has to."

"Surely, legislation must –"

"That's what they like you to believe. But the truth is much more self-serving."

Harry watched in interest as Mr Weasley nodded significantly at his son before changing the topic. "But that's not what you were asking about Harry. What was it you wanted to know?"

Harry sat up. "I reset a whole bunch of mail wards this summer, and a bunch of people I don't know have given me birthday presents. Could you check them for me to see if they're safe, do you think?"

"Wonderful idea, Arthur," Mrs Weasley exclaimed form behind Harry, making him jump. "Who knows what kind of riffraff have been sending him presents."

"Like toilet seats?" Fred piped up. "We didn't realise you were fair game, Harry!"

Molly whacked him gently on the head with a wooden spoon. "You stop your nonsense. The poor boy has enough to worry about without you lot getting on his case. After breakfast, Harry dear, I'm sure Arthur can find time."

The conversations drifted on, particularly when Neville, Ginny and Ron joined the table. Harry, however, kept an interested eye on Percy, who seemed slightly more thoughtful than usual.

After breakfast he found Mr Weasley follow him into Percy's bedroom, where Harry retrieved all the gifts he had stashed away.

"My word!" Mr Weasley exclaimed as he looked at the pile. "From total strangers, you say? I can see why you asked."

Percy walked in just as Harry sat down on his cot, and was similarly stunned. Together, they stared as Mr Weasley picked up a square gift and turned it thoughtfully.

"What are you doing?" Harry wondered.

Percy spoke too. "Which spells do you start with?"

"Take a guess."

Percy spoke. "_Finite_ seems obvious, then – "

"No, no," Mr Weasley interrupted hurriedly. "No. If something has been spelled for malicious purpose, using a _finite_ is the first spell they will have set up to counter. Not always, of course. But if they have, I can almost guarantee the results would be explosive."

Harry looked on interestedly as Percy seemed lost for words.

"First," Mr Weasley continued, "you have to really _look_ at it. See what you're working with. Does it shine? Does it glow? Does it throb with magic in your mage sight?"

"Mage sight?"

"A specialised skill that advanced wizards might pick up over years of dedicated study," Percy beat his father in responding to Harry's question, and Harry gasped appreciatively. "Incredibly difficult to achieve. Rumour has it that Albus Dumbledore is one of the few wizards who have achieved true success in the discipline. It seems a little unlikely for such an exceptional skill to be the first step in disenchanting."

Mr Weasley chuckled. "Oh, it's not, for your average wizard. It took me over twenty years to pick it up to a functional level myself."

Percy boggled.

"Bill will get there too, eventually. For now, come along."

Harry stood, curious, as his pile of gifts rose into the air and followed Arthur out of the bedroom like ducklings. He glanced at Percy, who looked like he had been hit over the head with a Confundus.

"Coming?" Harry asked.

The two of the trooped out of the room, following the string of gifts tumbling and bobbing until they passed through the front door. There they saw a grinning Arthur, who had laid the gifts out in a line on the ground, and now gestured to his audience.

"Harry, stand here. Percy, if you don't mind," he reached out and turned them by their shoulders until both boys stood with their backs facing the Burrow.

"Mage sight is a fabulous skill, if you've got the time for it. It's saved my life more than once. Mad-Eye Moody, too. For young lads like yourself, boys," Arthur drew his wand in readiness, "you can replicate the effect with charms on yourself. _Occuluseo._"

He waved his wand, causing Harry to blink, astonished, at the sudden blossoming of wisps of light around the gift-wrapped parcels lined up on the ground.

Mr Weasley explained. "What you're seeing here are the charms on the wrapping. If you turned around now – don't do it, just listen first – you would notice that the Burrow is also exhibiting the same – Percy! Stop and listen – the same effects, but many times brighter."

Harry watched as Percy stopped trying to spin around and settled down to look at his father.

"Because I am the one who has cast this spell on you, I will not have the instinct to adapt it if you look at something that shines too brightly for your mind. Which is why you will not be looking at the Burrow tonight. The charms that keep the Burrow standing are much more powerful and enduring. A warning, boys," his voice turned stern, "never let anyone cast this spell on you in Hogwarts. In fact, avoid doing it yourself until you develop sufficient control. You could be blinded, and medi-witches can't do much for blindness caused by magic itself. For now, Harry, you can try to unravel the spells on your presents here. For you in particular, it's a skill you'll need to know."

Harry swallowed.

"Now see here, Harry," Mr Weasley beckoned him closer, and they crouched over a rumpled parcel near the end of the line. "The first spell you should probably learn is _dispergo_, which will allow you to better see the layers in the spell weave. It's a soft swirl, loosen your wrist, add a bit of a twist. Percy, you can do this too."

Three minutes later Harry was staring, fascinated, at a mass of layers of light.

"Now the green glow," Mr Weasley reached out and gently twitched a layer with his wand, "or specifically, the silver layer with the tinge of green, is the base layer of the gift wrap. Paper based, you can see, from the stable brightness and lack of pulsing – trees have an enduring life-magic, Harry. Tree-magic does pulse, of course," he nodded to Percy, who looked like he wanted to take notes, "but their life-rhythm is so much slower than wizards that it is invisible to the eye. Cotton and linen, for example, would have a barely recognisable pulse, being from shorter lived plants."

"What would wool do?" Harry asked, fascinated.

"Good question," Mr Weasley beamed. "It shivers, I've always thought. There is more energy, more action, in creature- and beast-magic." His wand twitched again, this time picking up a thin coppery magic that clung to the base magic. "Now this here, is the imprint of the Snitch pattern – charmed on, not hand-decorated; it's the cheap stuff, Harry. You see how the colour – well, maybe you don't, but it will come with practice; it's brown, for reference – it reflects the nature of the magic, and not the pattern at all? The Snitches are gold, but the magic is not, hrm? And this here represents the animation of the print. Do you see how the static-hiss feels a little like the movement of the Snitches?"

The next half an hour was tremendously exciting for Harry, as Mr Weasley showed him which spells could prod and poke at the magic in his presents. He learned a number of new things, including what sounded suspiciously like some basic curse-breaking spells. He was even allowed to cast his own _Occuluseo_, which he was assured was not a complete failure. In the end, all of this presents were unwrapped and revealed, revealing only one which had been enchanted to act against him.

Mr Weasley picked it up with a smile.

"Not to worry, Harry. It looks like none of your gifters this time meant anything malicious."

As Mr Weasley stood, the arm holding the teddy bear curled up across his chest peculiarly, causing him to chuckle.

"Even this enchantment means no harm. Someone wants a prettily posed photograph, I should think. This wee little chap will just make you very fond of him. Holding him," he specified, "and I'm feeling the strangest need to smile at people. How fascinating."

Carrying the bear, Mr Weasley returned inside, leaving Harry to turn to Percy in curiosity.

"I didn't know your dad knew curse-breaking skills," he said in wonder. "And mage sight, even. Ron never said!"

"I should imagine not, Harry. I was not aware of this particular skill set of his either. A remarkable oversight on my behalf."

Harry was surprised. Mr Weasley seemed so open, but he played things quite close to his chest, by the looks of things today.

"Do you reckon that's what got Bill into it, then?" Harry wondered.

Percy cocked his head thoughtfully. "A fascinating possibility. I had previously been under the assumption that he was…escaping the family boundaries, so to speak. Perhaps Dad would…I wonder." He changed the subject. "You were particularly quick at picking up some of those spells, just now Harry. You were faster than me for some of them."

Harry shrugged self-consciously. "Ah, your dad was giving me a lot of direction."

"Hrm," Percy murmured, unsatisfied. Harry belatedly realised that most twelve-year-olds would not be capable of outperforming much older students, but a rational excuse escaped him.

Meanwhile, collecting up Harry's gifts with a wave of his own wand, Percy gestured for Harry to join him in walking back to the house. "No, really. You learn new spells at an astounding rate. How did you do in the end-of-year exams, if you do not mind me asking?"

"Ah," Harry blushed. "My theory is terrible, I'm afraid. Not very well at all." Not for his particular circumstance, at any rate.

"It looks like you have potential," Percy encouraged him, sounding suspiciously like he was treating Harry as a younger brother. "Perhaps even a future Prefect in the making? You do know of course that having a solid grasp of the theory will allow your spellcasting to have more power _and _flexibility? It would support you in learning new spells, as well. I would be willing to make myself available if you need guidance if that is something you might be interested in."

"Oh, really?" Harry knew how useful that could prove then.

"Certainly," Percy assured him. "Fred and George felt that my old school work would lack usefulness, and so I still have all my study notes sitting in my bedroom. If you're interested, I would be quite happy to loan them to you indefinitely."

Harry found himself strangely intrigued. The possibilities seemed fascinating.

The rest of the week passed by pleasantly, as Harry spent time with all of the Weasley family. Except Ginny, who continued to cope badly when stuck in the same room as him.

Hermione, Neville and Ron, of course, spent hours with him. Playing Exploding Snap, Wizard Chess, and even two-against-two with broomsticks and a quaffle.

Meanwhile, Harry continued to help Mrs Weasley out every morning, eventually learning a number of handy household hints. Fred and George didn't let him in their bedroom much, but Harry did manage to overhear some Quidditch strategy they were debating and insert himself into the conversation that way. They seemed surprised that he had such useful opinions. Harry didn't feel the need to share with them that he had been Quidditch Captain in a previous timeline.

He even tinkered a little bit with Mr Weasley in his shed, although he couldn't provide much knowledge of muggle mechanics, and none at all about electronics. Harry did feel, however, that his definition of the purpose of the rubber duck was superb. Of all the strange things for him to remember, this had stuck in his mind, and he had anticipated the question and planned ahead. After the fact, Harry took the triumph with him for the rest of the week.

"Well, Mr Weasley," he had begun formally, standing with Mr Weasley in the little shed out back. "The rubber ducky was originally something to chew. It has all sorts of fat bits and thin bits and so on, so for teething children and dogs, there was always some shape or form for chewing that would best suit.

"The rubber duck evolved to float slightly later, partly as an advertising gimmick, but it really became famous when a muggle character on a…erm, do you know of the telly? Television? Like the wireless, but with pictures too…when it was the subject of a very popular song for kids. And now they're just part of the culture where every kid learns the song and wants a rubber ducky for a few months."

He stepped back and awaited his audience.

"Why, Harry!" beamed Mr Weasley widely. "What a simply marvellous idea. Muggle culture! How delightful. An integral part of muggle childhood. The history, the mystery! The _romance_!" He stopped, arrested. "Can you sing the song?"

Harry checked behind him very carefully for any sight of Ron or Neville. He cautiously turned to make sure the bangs and whistles were still sounding from the twins' bedroom. He listened closely to any surreptitious noises that might be nearby the little shed. He made sure that the repetitive explosions were coming from the twin's bedroom. And then, ignoring his rising blush, Harry cleared his throat and raised his voice in chorus.


	7. Cultural Capital

Mulishly pulling his scattered plans together by dint of sheer will meant it took Harry three days to realise he'd caught Percy doing underage magic.

The thought struck him like lightning in the middle of a conversation with Fred, and he honestly couldn't say how the talk ended.

" – can spare seven Sickles," Fred agreed, observing Harry's parchment thoughtfully. "George and I figure that's pretty good odds for us, so we've pulled together most of our savings. You sure you can convince everyone?"

Harry hoped he responded politely, although the shock of his realisation meant he couldn't actually be sure. Holding the parchment and quill steady suddenly took his whole concentration._ Fred –_ _Seven Galleons_, he noted down carefully, his hand only shaking a tiny amount.

Fred eyed him strangely. "Oi. We're trusting you with our money here, Harry. Are you sure dear ol' Mum won't shut this thing down?"

"Hrm? Probably," Harry smiled, still in shock. _Percy_, of all people. "Just when you think you understand everyone…"

"Harry?" Fred's voice repeated, this time with a little edge to it. "Hey! If Mum figures you're running some kind of gambling ring she'll confiscated everything."

Harry blinked slowly, and rolled his parchment up. "People can constantly surprise you, Fred. Don't you worry."

"Hey!" Fred called after him, standing tense for some reason as Harry turned to leave. "Hey! This is Mum we're talking about here! Harry!"

His mind busy on other things, Harry merely waved goodbye absently and sat in a conveniently located armchair.

His thoughts were a muddy swirl in his mind; apparently the sudden realignment of his universe was taking a heavy toll on his Occlumency.

Harry frowned for a moment to breathe deeply, and turn the memory over in his mind.

His hands uncurled from around the parchment, his heartbeat slowed, and for a long moment of time, the living room itself seemed to fade away. Loud voices receded, and there was a moment of stillness and slowness of time, and the illusion of silver threads in his mind. Harry breathed out.

There was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn't even have tried to use Occlumency in a room with other people in it, but he was proud to say that his focus and concentration had improved tremendously over the months. He still wasn't good at multi-tasking with it, of course.

Harry blinked his eyes, his pupils returning to normal size as a concerned looking red-head leaned over him on the sofa.

"George!" Harry smiled, his equilibrium more-or-less restored. "Fred and I were just discussing your contribution to the round-robin chess competition. He said you're in?"

The twin frowned, a strange and thoughtful thing, before his face cleared suspiciously fast and he smiled oddly. "Sure thing, Harry. Fred says he's spoken to you already, so I thought I'd let you know I can put up thirteen Sickles, if you could answer just one question?"

Harry leaned forward. "Yeah?"

"We were wondering," the twin said slowly, "how you're planning on approaching Mum about all this. You realise if it comes off too much like a gambling ring, she'll take all the money away."

"Oh, not a problem." Harry relaxed. "I've already got her okay. I told her I found you all a little enthusiastic and boisterous and I'm struggling to get to know you all. A one-on-one game of chess seems like just the perfect thing."

"And the rest?" the twin enquired.

"Seemed like a nice, safe competition where Ron and Ginny weren't unreasonably disadvantaged, and couldn't possibly get injured," Harry smirked. "And would also help Neville and Hermione feel comfortable. The pool of money is just…incentive…to get you older folks involved with us kids."

"That's," the twin murmured softly, "not actually too bad, ickle-Harrikins. We might make a prankster of you yet." He checked himself. "Of course, you have to mostly mean it to get anything by her, so perhaps your pure aura helped you out."

"Probably," Harry agreed, and added George's name to the list.

As the older boy wandered off, Harry looked down at his parchment with pride. His cunning plan to buy Ron a new wand – the danger and chaos of second year being anticipated and averted quite easily – was coming together well. A few apologies for "missing Ron's birthday", a quiet word to Hermione and Neville, and a chess tournament money pool that Ron was practically guaranteed to win would all add up nicely to cover the cost of 14 inches of willow and unicorn hair.

A chess competition would also be his best chance to have a different type of conversation with Molly, since their usual morning discussions tended to focus around household magic. But it was vitally important Harry managed to organise the Diagon Alley shopping trip correctly. His plans for the year depended on it.

Harry found himself opposite her, on either side of a battered old chess board, the following evening.

In between the looping thoughts and plans, and shock about Percy, whirling through his mind, he had also been arguing with the chess pieces again, which may or may not have had something to do with his rather miserable showing.

"Go on, Harry dear," Mrs Weasley beamed. "Well, when you're ready." She raised her voice to be heard over the pieces, and also the din coming from the other group in the living room, where Ron and Percy were surrounded by the twins.

While Fred and George were apparently quite scathing of Percy's moves against their younger brother, Mrs Weasley herself scowled at the noise of the well-loved pieces on the board in front of her.

"You stop that," she snapped softly, whacking one of Harry's knights on the head with a quick hand. "I'll not have that language in my home, even if you are from Great-Uncle Caspar."

To Harry's astonishment, his chess pieces settled down into sullen silence, leaving him to venture an attempt at subtlety while he prodded forth a pawn.

"So, I was wondering if it would be possible to visit the Alley on a Wednesday?"

Mrs Weasley raised an eyebrow encouragingly, before deftly instructing a bishop to attack.

"A Wednesday, dear? We do have to run things by Hermione's parents before we decide anything, and I did have tentative plans…"

Harry interrupted earnestly. "So, I thought that midweek might be quieter than the weekends to shop, and I figured it would probably be best to meet Hermione's parents without them getting lost amongst all the wizarding folks." He smiled at Mrs Weasley, shoving forward another pawn before continuing. "I figured it would be easier to Mr and Mrs Granger to come through the Cauldron if there are less crowds, and Ron did mention that you might like to catch up with some friends?"

"Well now," Mrs Weasley mused. "You do raise some interesting points, Harry dear…" Chess pieces crashed against each other while they spoke.

He rushed on. "I don't know if you're a fan of Gilderoy Lockhart? Because there's an advertisement in the _Prophet_ about some kind of book signing, and I thought I saw you looking at one of his other books the other day, so I just thought –"

"Oh, look at that," Mrs Weasley interrupted. "You're three moves away from checkmate. I suppose I resign."

Harry looked blankly at the board.

She continued. "I was rather distracted by your persuasion. What a lovely game, that was, Harry. It was a pleasure."

"Um, yes?" Harry ventured, looking down at what was really supposed to be the early stages of a chess game. "Are you sure? I mean…"

"You make some compelling points," Mrs Weasley leaned over and patted him gently on the cheek. "I'm sure we can work something out. Perhaps Augusta could also be persuaded to have an early morning and get some shopping in before the crowds…" She subsided into a thoughtful mutter, and – chess game aside – Harry felt smug in his success. The important things were happening as he wanted.

The he leaned over to contemplate the board, and piece by piece return them to their squares.

"I didn't know you were such a fan of GIlderoy Lockhart," said a voice from behind him, and Harry swallowed a curse as he jerked in surprise.

"Hermione!" he grimaced. "I thought everybody was watching Ron. How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," the brunette grinned, and bent to help fix up the board. "Don't tell Ron now, but that didn't seem to be your usual game. You must really want to see this guy an awful lot."

"…no, not really."

"Are you telling me you think you might have won if Mrs Weasley hadn't suddenly found more important things to do?" She huffed. "It's me you're talking to. It's all okay."

"Well actually, I…"

She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've read his definitive autobiography myself, Harry. He's quite the accomplished wizard. Not to mention handsome."

"I promise you I never even considered that!"

She looked at him reflectively. "I…see. Well, if that's what you say."

"I do!" Harry really didn't want to be misunderstand as a fan of the fraud, especially not by his friends.

Hermione, meanwhile, returned to replacing the chess pieces and slid into the seat opposite him. Behind her sounded the raucous cries of the Weasley twins, and the crackle and pop of the fire: Mrs Weasley was apparently not wasting any time, but firecalling Neville's grandmother immediately.

"Well," Hermione continued, gesturing at Harry to play first, "_I_ certainly think he's a very handsome wizard."

Harry remembered her second-year crush, and smirked. "Do you?"

Hermione made another move on the old chessboard, sliding her black pawn forward two places. "Oh, he's very pretty," she dismissed, "but it's not just his looks I admire." Having made her move, she looked up at Harry's face intently. "It's rather uncommon to see such a highly trained wizard, but he's gone above and beyond that, you know?"

"…really?"

"It's a rare thing, Harry, that someone will dedicate their life to helping out people who need it," Hermione insisted. "Just fancy, he's travelled Europe and Asia. He's spent time wandering the Mongolian plains, just because of a rumour of a cursed mountain god, and dedicated years of his life to researching a cure for lycanthropy."

She looked at him significantly. "I really admire people who like to help others. Effective competence is an uncommon thing, and the empathy to actually use it is even more rare."

"I've heard he makes good money off his books," Harry tried, absently trying to save a rook from danger.

Hermione shrugged, and her knight smashed down on Harry's piece with a clatter. "Who could blame him for that? Perhaps if more people come to admire Mr Lockhart, they might be inspired to help people too."

"You think?"

"Check," she murmured. "I really do Harry. I think that there are some special people who just go through the world doing what they think is necessary – ooh, nice save – and without realising it, they challenge the people around them to be better too."

Harry refrained from answering due to a few minutes of intense concentration. After he finally lost his second bishop, he continued the conversation. "You think that Lockhart is the type to lead others to greater heights?"

Hermione shrugged, smiled, and captured another pawn. "I certainly believe that he's so widely admired for a reason."

Harry coughed.

"Are you okay? I'm really looking forward to reading his latest book," Hermione added. "Did you know he brings a new book out each year?"

Harry thought dark thoughts, but unfortunately, Hermione continued.

"I imagine having real life experience against genuine dark creatures and curses and whatnot must add a real, authentic urgency to his stories. Check, again."

Harry tried to save his king; Hermione pressed onward. He wondered absently if his game play really was worse than usual today, of if everyone in the house – aside from Neville, perhaps – were simply chess demons. From the sounds of it, Fred and George had an awful lot to say about Percy's game, still ongoing. Apparently he and Ron were significantly more competitive than Harry.

He wondered if perhaps he was thinking too much about all his other plans. And Percy. He still didn't know what to think about Percy, either.

Imitating great equanimity, Harry moved one of his three remain pawns onward, hoping against hope he might get one to the end of the board. To his endless dismay, Mrs Weasley chose that moment to pop her head back into the conversation with a cheerfulness that grated on his nerves.

"Harry, Hermione dear. You'll be every so pleased to know that Madam Longbottom believes it possible to clear her schedule for that Wednesday," Harry stifled a snort, "and so all that remains is to contact your parents, Hermione. Would you like to borrow Errol?"

Harry lost his chess game relatively quickly after that, as Hermione prioritised finishing quickly to go write a letter to her folks and soundly thrashed him. He wandered over to the other game to see it wrap up. To Harry's lack of surprise – but apparently to the astonishment of everyone else – Ron managed to maintain his dominance throughout the whole game and defeat his older brother.

Harry stood there in the living room, fire warm and glowing and the lights bright, and felt the warmth and life in the house as the evening wrapped up. The disbelieving shouts of Fred and George rang cheerfully throughout the building, Percy's surprisingly graceful loss achieved, and the bright and curious eyes of Ginny caught every movement in the room.

It would be a good year.

He found himself sitting opposite Percy himself a day later, about to start his fourth game on the same old blue and cream chessboard, while Fred and Hermione get competitive over their game close by.

"Ugh. His bishop's exposed." Percy's low voice caught Harry's attention.

"I thought you weren't any good at chess though?"

Percy looked offended. "Excuse me?"

Harry flinched. "…Sorry? I, uh, was just under the impression, Ron somehow made me think…and with what the twins said yesterday, I just assumed…"

"Oh." Percy smiled a thin little smile, and moved a white pawn forward to begin their own game. "Ron's been better than I at chess for years, now. I'd appreciate it if you didn't allow his abilities to minimise my own."

"Sorry, really." Harry moved his own piece. "Hey Percy?"

"Yes?"

Like a dam breaking, Harry's curiosity finally reached its limit and words poured forth. "I'm sorry, it's been on my mind, but…how come you came with me the other day? You know, with the presents?"

Percy raised an eyebrow in polite enquiry. "It seemed like an interesting learning opportunity."

"Well yeah – and wasn't it interesting about your dad and Bill? But what I meant was, you know," he looked around quickly to see if Molly Weasley was in the room, "the other bit? With the magic?"

"Oh! Yes, I see what you mean." Percy gave the room a quick and nervous scan also. "That bit. You feel it is unworthy behaviour of a prefect such as myself?"

The small part of Harry's mind that wasn't quivering for answers noticed that neither of them were playing a good game of chess, pieces being placed willy-nilly. "Well, you could put it that way, I suppose. I thought you were a pretty black and white guy."

Percy leaned forward. "It all comes down to my understanding of the Ministry in the end. It performs a vital function, I should think."

Harry reflected on the family conversation from a few days ago. "Well yes. Ministry laws certainly have their place. But I didn't think you would be someone who would…ignore…rules like that, even if they did get in the way of good learning moments."

With a prod of his finger, Percy directed a pawn to jump forward and destroy one of Harry's. Both boys ignored the blistering insults that Harry's pawn shouted before it got knocked out; if Molly Weasley had been present, she would have slapped it quiet, but Percy simply spoke on. "I should hope I would never ignore rules for my own convenience, I'll thank you kindly. Even though we might not be aware of them, most rules have been placed there for our safety. A little inconvenience here or there – "

"But in this case?"

"Ah." Percy sighed. "If you must know, I did have to have a discussion about it with my father once."

Harry spared a thought for Arthur Weasley writing his own loopholes into laws. "What did he say?"

"All societies not only run, but positively thrive, on rules. They govern social expectations, delineate norms, and keep us safe, of course. Together they are part of what creates our culturally accepted practises."

"Yes?"

Percy moved another piece and spoke quietly. "Don't tell my brothers, if you please: There are some rules, believe it or not, that are simply more guidelines than imperatives."

Harry gaped.

"I know, I know. Coming from me," Percy spoke with wry amusement. "I believe my father spoke to you about the nature of muggle rules? And their herd mentality?"

Harry pursed his lips. "I…yes? Perhaps not in those exact words, I don't think."

The familiar pomposity of Percy's voice faded away into what Harry could only describe as enthusiasm. "Well, in the wizarding world there are some that are positively impossible to enforce because of the very nature of our culture. And so we must read, not into the letter of the law, but its spirit."

"Percy?"

"It is me," Percy assured him. "It's all part and parcel of knowing the rules very well, you must understand. Er, you will do me the honour of not repeating this near Fred or George, won't you?

"Of course," Harry assured him. "The spirit?"

"Indeed." Between chess moves, Percy's hands began to flit about in excitement, illustrating who knows what with movement and energy. "The misuse of magic laws govern the secrecy of our culture – not to reveal ourselves to the muggles, not to make profit off their naïve desire for quality – and also to ensure accidents occur around people who can resolve them. Children, for example, should never attempt magic alone."

"That makes a certain amount of sense." Harry acknowledge he was mostly going to lose this chess game too, and withdrew most of his focus from the game.

"It makes perfect sense, if you please. The underage magic regulations, you see, govern the student body as a whole, taking into account that not all students have the context in which to practice in their own time. The law states that, except in mitigating circumstances, all students should follow the generalisation."

"So…"

"So ultimately," Percy continued, eyes afire, "a measured and responsible oversight by parents of their children during holidays is an accepted interpretation of the underage restrictions."

Absently, Harry knocked over his king and shook Percy's hand. "Good game. But your mother doesn't let you guys do magic in the holidays."

"Many thanks," Percy accepted the win with good grace. "Well obviously. Effective supervision is active supervision, after all. A child doing magic in another room – _don't_ mention experimental magic, please, for the sake of my sanity – is not supervised." Percy fixed Harry to his seat with a particularly piercing stare, his pompous prefectly poise returning. "You've _met_ my siblings: some need no encouragement."

Harry grimaced.

"As long as the registered wand is within wandlight of an adult wizard, the Trace overlooks it," Percy muttered quickly. "If that's not an acknowledgement of cultural exceptions, I don't know what is. I've come to this conclusion by dint of a number of conversations with my father, and some very focussed hours of research in Hogwarts library, I'll have you know. When I ask you not to pass this information on, I am sincere."

"Oh, obviously!" Harry rushed to assure him. "I'm really honoured that you're sharing this with me, Percy – "

"It is not advertised or common knowledge," Percy insisted.

"I… thanks." Harry pondered. "Perhaps we could chat a bit more once I've had time to think about things a bit?"

Percy nodded slowly. "I would be amenable to that."

Having apparently said his piece, Percy became apparently content to replace the chess board in silence, before nodding silently to Harry and departing. Harry sat there, still in the same armchair, and found himself pondering the strange similarities between Arthur Weasley and his most unlikely of sons.

Arthur, Harry had vaguely come to realise, might be poor, but was in a more powerful position that Ron seemed to have guessed. He was in the position to write his own laws, for Merlin's sake. Harry spared a thought for the little blue Anglia sitting in the shed outside. He was in the position to write his own _loopholes_ into laws. That spoke to a more cunning mind that Harry had previously assumed. Perhaps he should talk a bit more with Arthur Weasley too.

Fred and George certainly seemed to have inherited some of that cunning. Harry wondered if they focused so much on potions research during the holidays because it wasn't associated with underage magic in the same way that wandwork was. They'd found a loophole in their own way, Harry supposed.

But even Percy, prim, proper Prefect Percy with his rule-abiding ways, was willing to follow the spirit of the letter rather than the law on occasion.

Perhaps all his sons took after Arthur, in more ways than were obvious, Harry pondered. He wondered if he was shaped more by the shadow of his parents than he had previously assumed. Or perhaps the Dursleys…

Harry shut that thought down.

It was a good thing that he had never planned on winning the chess tournament, since Harry had a sinking feeling he had a lot to think about over the next few days.


	8. Fruitful Plans

It was obvious in hindsight, Harry realised, that he didn't need to make suggestions or manipulate anyone into going on that specific date after all. Molly Weasley had organised their shopping trip with all the grace and efficiency of a centaur at full charge; he'd pointed out the direction and no further encouragement was necessary.

It was simply a pity for Harry's reputation that he hadn't worked that out beforehand: Mrs Weasley and Hermione for some odd reason seemed to think he admired Lockhart somehow, and no matter how strongly he denied it, their opinion never seemed to change.

However, the important parts of his plan continued smoothly. The morning of the shopping trip began simply enough. After a few hearty bacon sandwiches for breakfast, there was a small fuss over the Floo powder method of travel, this time centring around Hermione.

"I know all about it," she declared bravely, "in theory. I take the powder, throw it on the flame, step in once it burns green and call out my destination clearly, correct? The Ministry pamphlet states that it is the safest form of wizarding transport – especially for the young and infirm – and the worst accident in Floo Network history is the case of Violet Tillyman, who mispronounced her destination and disappeared from society for twenty years. Despite the public outcry," Hermione continued, speaking faster and faster, "and subsequent panic, it was actually a romantic story, because she when she stumbled out of the wrong fireplace at the time..."

"Yes, dear," Mrs Weasley patted her on the head kindly and cut off her regurgitation of the history of Violet Tillyman and her seven children.

They sorted the fuss out quickly: Fred and George stepping through first, Harry giving Hermione a few, most helpful hints before he followed ("Keep your elbows tucked in, take a big breath _before_ you step in the fire"). Soon the group of ten were standing happily in front of the Diagon Alley network connection, slightly sooty but otherwise alright.

Having successfully arrived at Diagon Alley with no magical mishaps or misadventures, Harry's mind returned to what he could remember of the timeline. Although without his Pensieve he could not yet remember details reliably, he did tend to suffer from periods of compulsive comparison: timeline to timeline. Some facts stood out.

By rights, Hagrid would also be wandering the narrow street in search of Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent by now.

Draco Malfoy and his father should be selling dark artefacts in Knockturn Alley too, possibly with fewer insults regarding Harry if he read his relationship with Malfoy correctly. Harry was pleased to remember in passing that he had already successfully removed the Vanishing Cabinet from Borgin and Burkes, well away from Malfoy's impressionable eyes.

The large group found their way through the throng of people and milled around the entrance of Gringotts for a few minutes, waiting for Neville's stern-looking grandmother and Hermione's parents to arrive.

The noise was deafening. The loud clatter of boots on cobblestones and chatter of voices made even the Alley seem slightly claustrophobic while they waited. Ron and Neville were standing a little too far apart to have a comfortable conversation. To Harry's dismay, Ron decided against moving closer to Neville to hear what he said.

"WHAT'S THAT?" Ron bellowed, right next to Harry's ear.

Voice drowned in the ambient noise, Neville mouthed something back.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

Harry flinched and rubbed his ear reflexively.

Then he caught Mrs Weasley's eye and grimaced apologetically: apparently his waxing eloquent about avoiding the crowds had been wishful thinking.

Wishing earnestly that he could use his wand without Mrs Weasley noticing, Harry attempted to save his eardrums.

"Alright guys," he called, gesturing firmly. "Huddle up close. I said, huddle up, people, so we don't have to shout!" Hermione and Neville shuffled forward. "HUDDLE UP, RON!"

"WHAT?!"

Harry grabbed Ron's arm and yanked him close to the others. "Now we can hear each other!"

They mouthed platitudes at each other for a few minutes: Harry wasn't quite sure what the others were saying, but the obvious assumption was that they were complaining about the sound.

Then Mr Weasley or someone must have taken pity on them, because the clamour receded, and Harry felt his ears pop with the sudden lack of noise.

"Thank goodness," Hermione sighed into what seemed like ringing silence. "I thought I was going to go deaf."

Neville grinned. "Good day to be out, don't you think? People must be out for the great weather."

"That's one perspective."

"Bit of a change from the Burrow, I'd say."

It led to a few minutes of comparison. Did the excitement of the Alley make up for the crowds? Was the comfort of the Burrow, and the Weasley tribe, a better time?

Ron had his own perspective of the last few days. "I don't understand why you were spending all that time with my folks," he groused, while Hermione checked her watch and Mr and Mrs Weasley craned their necks to see over the throng of people. "I thought I'd finally have time to catch up with Harry today, but look how that's worked out. Weren't you were going to spend the holidays with me, not my family?"

"We did have the chess tournament and the Quidditch," Neville pointed out mildly. "It's not like we lost him in the crowds back at your place."

"Well, yeah," Ron nodded. "But that was still everyone. Although," he added hastily, as if he was afraid that he seemed ungrateful, "you were both really good about the chess thing. I got a little competitive halfway through – after that game with Hermione – and I forgot to hold back on you. You were really good sports about it and everything."

Harry and Neville exchanged an amused glance. They'd both been thrashed in the round-robin competition, and to no one's surprise except the Weasley family's, Ron had dominated everyone.

"I saw you talking to Percy," Ron continued. "What have you got to talk about with him, Harry? It's nothing personal, you know, but he's my most boring brother."

Behind Ron, Harry saw Percy grimace, and inch further away. He must have been inside the quiet bubble too, and Harry wished he had chosen to overhear something else.

"I don't know, Ron," he loudly proclaimed. "He's a great guy. He's been helping me out a lot with my studies, particularly after your dad showed me that stuff, you know."

It was about that time that Harry realised the whole group must have been isolated from the noise, because Mrs Weasley must have caught Harry's voice. Her head snapped around and she looked at her husband quite intently, hackles rising. "What 'stuff' is this, Arthur? Not more spellwork, I hope?"

Arthur stammered, "Oh no, Molly dear. Not at all. I would never encourage the boys to learn spells out of Hogwarts. Definitely not, eh boys?"

Percy and Harry nodded.

Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes. "No more Ministry loopholes then?"

"Certainly not," said Mr Weasley, shaking out a handkerchief with which he could mop his forehead. "It was just Harry's birthday presents they were talking about. Weren't you Harry?"

"Oh yes," Harry assured her. "Only one cursed present among them, and even that wasn't meant badly, Mr Weasley said. I was very grateful for the help."

"Well then, I suppose that's alright dear." Mrs Weasley settled back where she stood. After the stress of the moment, Harry's gaze met Percy's who, to Harry's astonishment, quietly winked. The moment was broken when Mrs Weasley then cried out in delight as she saw Hermione's parents push through the crowd. Augusta Longbottom arrived not long after.

As a group, they then made their way into the cool marble hall of Gringotts, where the Weasleys visited their vault and the Grangers exchanged muggle money before everyone split up to do their shopping – ears all protected this time, thank goodness.

On the steps of Gringotts, Percy muttered something about needing a new quill, and shortly thereafter the twins spotted Lee Jordan and dashed off accordingly. Mrs Weasley and Ginny disappeared just as rapidly to buy her wand and other first-year requirements. Mr Weasley, having watched closely as his wife bustled off into the distance, promptly invited the Mr and Mrs Granger for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron as soon as she was out of sight. As they walked off together rapidly, Mr Weasley already asking excitedly about the telly. Harry was slightly disturbed to hear Mr Weasley occasionally bounce on the balls of his feet, in time to the rhythm "Rubber Ducky", which he might also have been mumbling under his breath.

Neville, who had been blossoming in the company of Harry over the previous year, looked somewhat lost and diminished in the presence of his august grandmother. His self-confidence shrank rapidly, leaving Ron – the least observant of the friends – to dominate the conversation.

Feeling sorry for his nervous friend, Harry spoke up.

"Madam Longbottom, it's a pleasure to meet you," he offered, using all his twelve-year-old dignity to hide the fact that he didn't know whether to bow or offer a handshake. "Neville's told us so much about you and his family. You must be very proud of him." He smiled charmingly, Gilderoy Lockhart style, and hoped Madan Longbottom didn't know enough about him to tell that he wasn't quite in character. Neville looked between Harry and his grandmother, somewhat baffled. Harry blithely ignored the fact that Neville had told him no such thing.

Madam Longbottom inclined her head graciously, ignoring her grandson's puzzled look.

"Indeed," she said. "Neville has told me many things about his friends this year. I appreciate you watching over him at school."

"Not at all," Harry rebutted quickly. "Neville's been a great bloke to have about. He did me a huge favour back at the beginning of last year when I was having trouble with a certain hex, and he's always helping us out with our Herbology work."

He scratched his head, honestly awkward. "Uh…and I really need to thank you for the very generous Christmas present I received a while back. Memorabilia of, um…I really…I don't, I can't really say how much it means, but I…excuse me." He had to turn and cough.

Augusta's stern face peered searchingly down into Harry's, and he felt a hot flush of blood flooding into his head.

In the face of his embarrassment, Ron's face suddenly relaxed in understanding, while Hermione looked between the two of them curiously.

The stern old lady softened visibly. "Our families were very close. It was the least we could do for you."

Harry smiled back, genuinely. "Well, Nev's always been a really thoughtful kind of bloke, so I shouldn't have been surprised as I was."

Hermione's mouth made a little 'o' shape as she made the connection to Harry's most precious Christmas present. Although she clearly didn't know where Harry was going with his effort, he knew he could rely on her to help him along. She was just a moment away from jumping in to contribute.

"Harry takes very good care of them," she ventured tentatively.

Harry shrugged. "I can't not, now can I?" Although his flush was fading, he still absently reached up to scratch the back of his neck in discomfort, before forging on. "Such a _generous_ gift. No, really." He cut Augusta and Neville's protests off. "Really. I think it says something special about Nev that, being what they are" – precious memories of his own absent parents – "he still gave them to me."

"Neville's very self-sacrificing," Hermione smiled. "And so determined to do the right thing. He's always so good about keeping up with his studies, and is a great help to Ron here, _isn't he Ron_."

Ron got a stray elbow straight in the gut, and _oofed_ a little.

"Wha'? Uh...yeah, you're a great help, mate. Couldn't do it without you, y'know."

Neville glowed a little at the praise from his friends and stood up straighter. Ron's muttered complaints to Hermione was quite muted for him, while the conversation moved on.

Madam Longbottom favoured her grandson with a look less stern than usual.

"Is that so? It is reassuring to hear that you are keeping up with your friends, Neville," the strict woman offered. "Your parents would be proud of you."

Harry, a little concerned that Ron or Hermione might pick up on the comment and raise awkward questions, leapt ahead with his plan.

"I'm sure they would be," he smiled. "Neville's a perfect Gryffindor, just like his parents. Is that his father's wand he's been using?"

Madam Longbottom eyed Harry curiously, thereby missing Neville's look of puzzlement.

"Indeed," the matriarch answered. "I am pleased to hear he has been speaking of his parents. Why do you ask?"

Harry blithely went on to wax lyrical on Ollivander's most famous phrase.

" – and so, of course, I never knew that wands choose their wizard until last year," he rambled, shuffling his feet on the hard Gringotts steps. "Does that mean that Neville would have more power and control with a wand that chooses him?"

Neville, listening curiously all this time, looked eagerly at his grandmother. Hermione stared a little longer at Harry, finally rewarding him with a small smile.

"Oh, what a lovely idea," she added, slyly for her. "You mean Neville would be even more successful with a wand that chooses him, Harry? His parents would be so proud."

Madam Longbottom looked measuringly between the hopeful Neville and his friends. Their eager little eyes looked back, a baffled Ron also throwing in his hopeful gaze in solidarity with his friends, and finally the older woman sniffed softly in amusement.

Harry could have sworn he heard her mention something about, 'taking after his father', but he kept his gaze firmly, hopefully on her.

The stern dowager finally returned her gaze to Harry, staring at his youthful face with dour suspicion. Harry worked extra hard to hold his face still, projecting youth and innocence as hard as he could. Sometimes it was very taxing pretending to be twelve.

"Very well, Neville. It seems you have some good friends, and you have indeed had a successful year. How would you like a new wand?"

Neville tripped over his own tongue in his haste to accept the generous offer, and the little group moved smartly down the street towards Ollivander's.

* * *

Neville, beaming with pleasure and pride, left the shop thirty minutes later holding a brand-new wand, 13 inches long, made of unicorn hair and cherry wood.

He twisted the wand carefully in his hands, its beautiful, burnished red wood glossy in the sunlight, and whispered his quiet thanks to Harry as they all trooped out into the sunny, mid-morning light.

Fortunately for everybody's sanity, the noise level had somewhat abated; perhaps the crowds had moved elsewhere.

"Thanks, Harry," Neville muttered under his breath. "Not sure how you knew all that, but this is fantastic. I owe you one."

Harry grinned at his timid friend and tucked a bottle of wand polish into Neville's pocket.

"Happy Birthday. Thought you deserved it, mate," he grinned. "Congratulations. Glad to help out."

To Harry's private pride, as they exited the musty little shop, Ron Weasley was also holding a new wand in his hands, staring at it somewhat blankly.

Harry grinned his way, and spoke, knowing that Hermione would catch on to his comments quickly.

"No need to thank me," he waved off Ron's confused protests. "I know a new wand's an expensive gift, but it's a group effort. We all went in on a belated birthday gift for you," Harry lied glibly, subtly elbowing Hermione's side as he walked past. "And we topped it up with the pool from the chess competition. All proceeds to the winner, right?"

Ron's face was bright red, shining and sweating in his excitement, somewhat unattractively, it was true.

Hermione, after a sharp look at Harry, backed him up. "It's not charity, Ron, or generosity. You wouldn't get those from me, you realise? But even I can admit that you played those chess games wonderfully. Have you ever considered going pro?"

"What, I can earn money from playing games?" he asked incredulously. "Or is this a muggle thing?"

"Well, not technically all games," Hermione began, her lecturing tone settling in. "But definitely chess, at least in the muggle world. You have to be very good, of course, even better than you are now, but the system works this way…" She laid out what she knew. Ron, slightly taller now than he had been a few months ago, had to lean over a little in order to not miss a thing.

Harry watched with nostalgia as the bushy-haired girl drew Ron into an enthusiastic conversation about chess practicalities, the red-head still grasping his fourteen inches of willow and unicorn hair tightly with both hands.

Was this the beginning of a beautiful relationship? Or, as Harry moderated his thoughts with wry acceptance, the end of their mutually hostile sufferance?

He spared a stray thought to what his original Hermione had once called 'sexual tension'. Was this it?

The situation left Harry and Neville to walk at the back, and the two boys continued down the Alley in excitement, pointing as they went. Even Augusta Longbottom looked at them indulgently as they walked cheerily up ahead.

The group peacefully browsed their way past the shops, arriving outside Flourish and Blotts in time to regroup with the others.

* * *

To Harry's unsurprised dismay, it was once again bursting at the seams, packed to capacity with witches desperate for a glimpse or a handshake with wizarding heartthrob, Gilderoy Lockhart. The crowds had clearly relocated here, although the din was quieter: more reverent, Harry thought somewhat cynically.

"We can actually meet him," Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's written practically the whole booklist!"

Ron and Harry shared a glance and rolled their eyes. To Harry's surprise, Ron restrained himself from making any further comment. Perhaps he was grateful for Hermione's information on chess. They all shuffled closer together as they caught up with the crush of people.

The jostling crowd surged forward towards the door, and they joined the end of the meandering queue. The harassed wizard minding the door was constantly muttering pleas for restraint as he attempted to hold back the crowd, sweat already on his brow.

"Mind it there, ladies...no pushing please...please have patience...calmly now, mind the books..."

Harry was amused to see Hermione pop up on tiptoes to peer into the shop. Madam Longbottom, her face fixed in a stern and disapproving expression, stood right beside her, carefully blocking out queue jumpers with a rather firm stance. Harry eyed her body language in surprise: she looked like a fighter, and to the best of his knowledge, Madam Longbottom herself had never been part of the Order of the Phoenix. He remembered that she was some kind of Lockhart fan, and her stance showed it. It was the way her face was set, intimating supreme disinterest, that really made him smile. He stood in her shadow, significantly less active about holding his place in the queue, and waited.

They finally managed to squeeze inside. In the sudden dimness of the shop, Harry still saw the queue continued around the front floor, only stopping near the back of the shop where Lockhart was signing his books. Content to wait his turn, Harry passed the time by browsing the shelves in front of him, building a small but fascinating mental list of Charms and Transfiguration texts to borrow from the library later while he waited.

When bored, he only needed to observe his companions for amusement.

Not surprising Harry in the least, Neville and Ron struggled to maintain interest in the event, even as the hum and thrill of the crowd filled them with energy. Under his grandmother's supervision, all Neville could do was pluck out his brand-new wand and fiddle with it, admiringly. Ron, in contrast, plucked books from the shelves, and after a few seconds of perusal, was dumping them back incorrectly. Harry's new respect for libraries had him biting his lips in irritation: the gaps on the shelves were still there, he couldn't help noticing, so why couldn't Ron replace them where they came from instead of _piling them up wrong?_

Hermione would have helped him out and said something, but she was still enthralled. Every minute or so she would pull her head out from her latest Lockhart pamphlet – they'd been at the door, apparently – to pop her head up every now and then like a meerkat, hoping for an early peek at her newest idol.

Harry shifted his weight to his other foot. Personally, he was far more amused to see Madam Longbottom's aggressive use of her handbag to maintain her position in the queue, resisting back against the occasional pushing and shoving that pulsed down the line. It seemed the footwork was paying off.

The group bided their time as the queue slowly snaked forward. Unlike Harry, Hermione and Neville grabbed their book list as they went. Ron too, soon found himself holding the full set, as his mother pushed past him to begin a lively conversation with Neville's grandmother. She'd filled his arms with a load of books as she swept past. Harry was unsurprised to see various Weasleys dotted about the shop like patches of sunlight, in various states of distress or mischief.

Harry had to try surprisingly hard not to roll his eyes or snigger at any of them inappropriately.

Having finished his shopping already, he himself chose not to pick any up, and found himself explaining to the frustrated Hermione that yes, he was sure Ron would be happy to share books with him, and yes, he had actually bought this year's textbooks. In fact, he had already bought last year's second year Defence Against the Dark Arts one, and surely they covered the same topics?

"I know it's hard for a boy to admit admiration," Hermione protested, "but this is an incredible chance to –"

"Hermione."

"At the very least, Harry, the book list requires –"

"Hermione."

"Well." She rolled her eyes. "I certainly won't be explaining to Professor McGonagall why –"

Ron interrupted. "Just give it a rest, will you?"

She subsided in frustrated silence for a short time, before flipping open her copy of _Break with a Banshee_, reading out short excerpts to the boys standing around her.

Harry, Ron and Neville shared eye-rolls and the occasional wry smile, but listened with comparative patience until they reached the front of the line.

They did not have anywhere else to go, at any rate.

The group made it nearly to the front of the line before the golden-blond man happened to look up and glance over the crowd. His eyes fixed immediately on the half-hidden scar on Harry's forehead, and Lockhart jumped up with a broad grin and sweep of his arms.

"It _can't_ be. Harry Potter himself!"

The crowd murmured behind them, and the Daily Prophet photographer leapt forwards to snap photos.

Although he had expected it – some details just didn't fade from your memory even if you wish they would – Harry accepted the insistent tugging on his elbow. There were a few relationships this timeline that he wanted to change, and his relationship with the press was one of them. The benefits of positive press, he now knew, were rare and to be treasured.

He pasted an interested look on his face.

Harry found himself pulled out of the line, posing for a handshake with Lockhart in front of the crowd.

"Nice big smile, Harry," Lockhart muttered out of the side of his mouth. "Together, you and I are worth the front page."

Resigned, Harry chose to smile for the camera, allowing a few moments of handshake with the famous author, before being pulled close to Lockhart in an imitation of friendliness.

_Endure_, he thought to himself. _Endure it, endure._

Then they had to rearrange themselves to pose in different positions. Harry stoically put up with this too, reflecting on what he had learned about his symbolic meaning to the wizarding world. Gladys' parents would probably see these photos. Martha's in-laws might be pleased to see he was living well. All those witches and wizards who had been sending him birthday gifts for ten years. He had been loved as a person all these years too, not just held up as a trophy. He held onto thoughts of them desperately and hoped his smiles didn't look too fixed.

"Sorry, sorry," he finally muttered up to Lockhart under his breath, when the camera flashes all got to be too much. "I wouldn't want to barge in and take over on your important day."

Lockhart, suddenly freezing at the sound of Harry's words, smiled a toothy grin and clapped his hand of Harry's shoulder.

"Quite right, my boy," he nodded. "Let me wrap this up." The man's voice then boomed out over the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen," he said loudly. "What an extraordinary meeting this is! The perfect opportunity for me to make a very pleasant, very personal announcement to you all!

"Young Harry here has not come here for fame or glory – no! Not at all – but rather to prepare for his education at the renowned Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am pleased to announce that I personally support his learning – a small gift from me, Harry," he glanced to the boy beside him fondly, head tilted at the perfect angle for a flattering shot. The cameraman continued to leap around in clouds of purple smoke, immortalising the moment.

" – by gifting him the complete set of textbooks needed for his Defence Against the Dark Arts classes this year. That's right folks!" the blond continued. "You heard me. I am pleased to provide Harry Potter himself with the complete collection of my autobiographical works, as I announce that I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts this September!"

The crowd cheered and clapped, and Harry took advantage of the distraction to scurry to the edge of the room to stand next to Ginny, who was presumably not buying books, being in the position to reuse Ron's old ones. She was holding a half-full cauldron, however, that had a few second-hand volumes piled up inside. Walking towards her allowed Harry to coincidentally arrive quite close to the shadowy corner where the Malfoy family stood in silence, removed from the crush.

With a casual smile, Harry tipped his armful of Lockhart books into Ginny's cauldron.

She _eeped_, and flushed a deep pink which clashed adorably with her hair. Harry was beginning to get used to this shy and retiring first year with the uncontrollable crush on him. How had he never noticed how cute she was at this stage last timeline?

The nostalgic thoughts crept upon him, before he batted them to one side. Now was not the time. Important things were about to happen: Constant Vigilance, and all that.

Harry looked away to give her some space, only to meet Draco Malfoy's unimpressed gaze.

Harry shared a measuring glance with Malfoy while he joined them against the wall. Before Malfoy could do more than curl his lip, Harry rolled his eyes and hissed for quiet. Malfoy looked at him curiously.

"For goodness sake," Harry whispered, "Don't draw his attention."

Malfoy huffed once in amusement,

Harry dared to push his luck. "Did you buy his stuff?"

"We made it before the crowd," the Slytherin replied, meeting Harry's gaze with that same curious sense of appraisal he had noticed all of last year.

"You didn't want an autograph?" Harry enquired curiously.

"From that fool? Hardly."

"In that case," Harry murmured lowly, "if he turns out to be useless, what do you plan on doing for the exams?"

Looking slightly baffled that he was having another strangely polite conversation with the Gryffindor Golden Boy, Draco scoffed. "After Quirrell last year, how much worse could he really be?"

Harry was silent.

Malfoy turned to stare fully at him. "Seriously?" Malfoy asked incredulously, "You think he's going to be that bad? Not even Dumbledore would hire a teacher who was completely hopeless. Although," he mumbled thoughtfully, "hopeless is all a matter of opinion, I suppose."

"Hrmm," Harry encouraged.

"I mean, Quirrell was an education unto himself."

"Hmmm."

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Dumbledore's got a bit of a track history, of course."

Harry raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

Thoughtfully, Malfoy met his eyes. "You've got…alternative arrangements then?"

Harry nodded.

"Huh."

They stood there in silence as Lockhart drew his spectacle to a close. Harry and Draco gazing at the chaos with apathy, little Ginny Weasley peeking at Harry from the corner of her eyes.

After some time, the line began to move again, and Ron, Neville and Hermione made their way through the crowd with their new books.

They were soon joined by the adults, and set to work organising their purchases so they could leave the store.

Lucius Malfoy, who had apparently been eyeing the Weasleys keenly the whole time, stepped forward smoothly, deep blue robes swishing impressively.

"Arthur Weasley," he sneered. "What a surprise."

Mr Weasley swung around with a start, drawing the attention of his wife, Madam Longbottom and the Grangers also.

"Lucius," answered Mr Weasley coldly.

Mr Malfoy stepped closer.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," he scoffed, "I do hope," he noticed Madam Longbottom standing with her hand on Neville's shoulder, watching the confrontation with interest, and visibly changed his tune, "you're not keeping too busy."

He reached over to his left and plucked an old book out of Ginny's second-hand purchases.

Harry watched him under lidded eyes. He saw Mr Malfoy palm a small black diary from within his sleeve and into Ginny's book.

"First year is a challenge," continued Mr Malfoy. "It wouldn't do for you to get too busy for your family."

He reached over and ruffled Ginny's hair with the very tips of his fingers, and nodded respectfully to Madam Longbottom. "Good luck with next year, child," he added, and calmly stalked away, casually wiping his fingers on a pocket-handkerchief. He left baffled silence in his wake. Looking somewhat confused himself, Draco nodded in Harry's direction and followed after his father.

"What was all that about?" asked Ron, looking curiously at the trio as they strode off.

"Goodness knows," Mr Weasley answered. "That was positively friendly for him."

Ginny ruffled her own hair uneasily, only to blush red and stumble when Harry smiled at her reassuringly.

Harry, looking on in quiet amusement as she struggled to right herself only to accidentally punch George in the nose as she flailed, then grinned again and leaned over to pick up her cauldron full of books.

The group finally organised themselves and meandered back up the Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron and Floo access point where they would part. The twins and their friend dropped behind with urgent whispers. Harry smirked as he thought of them sneaking off for one final bulk purchase of prank items, and kept their secret. Ginny stumbled along next to him, occasionally opening her mouth as if she wanted to say something. Harry took big strides up the Alley, hefting her cauldron with surprising ease. Ginny shadowed him as he navigated the pedestrians smoothly, before subsiding into mortified silence as she walked into an oncoming witch. She opened her mouth a number of times, but never quite dared to address Harry directly, and finally ran on ahead.

In the Leaky Cauldron, they went their separate ways. Neville and his grandmother took their leave formally, and then Flooed off from Tom's fireplace. Hermione and her parents were more casual, but both Harry's friends promised to write again before September first, and organised to meet each other on the Hogwarts platform. Then the Grangers left through the exit into London.

Sure that everyone was distracted by the fuss, Harry silently shook out the book that Mr Malfoy had picked up and pocketed the black diary that fell out.

Then Mrs Weasley had to organise everyone through the Floo back to her place. Mr Weasley and Ron and Ginny went ahead, while Mrs Weasley corralled the twins and prodded Percy through the fire, his head already buried in a large, if dog-eared, book.

Just as Harry himself stepped forward, the rattling whistle of impending doom shrieked from behind him, gaining momentum.

"Fred!" Harry heard gasped, his foot already in the green flames.

As Harry turned and habitually uttered, "The Burrow," small purple sparks joined the flames beneath his feet and a sudden, blinding explosion of fireworks lit up the whole room.

The dizzy power of the Floo picked Harry up and spun him and spun him, leaving a dizzy Harry to spot only glimpses of Mrs Weasley bearing down on a supremely-self-satisfied twin, _Cauldron_ patrons running and ducking for cover, the wide, gleeful eyes of a successful prankster…

And then the fire swished him away.

Despite the furious bellows of Mrs Weasley, who shortly thereafter followed him home, Harry walked up the creaky steps to his trunk with light steps. It was with an unfamiliar sense of pride and satisfaction that he carefully transferred the diary from his pocket into his secret third compartment. Despite schedule shifts and coursing crowds – and twin terrors, he was mindful enough to remember, despite his current ease – Harry was secure in the knowledge that he had casually and pre-emptively eliminated the chaos that would have otherwise occurred during the upcoming year. Despite Mrs Weasley's best efforts, her lungs working overtime, and the twins' unending chaos, he had secured for himself a quiet year. What a rare thing.


	9. Faltering Footsteps

Harry enjoyed the slow and easy days remaining of his break.

With Neville gone, Harry's cot moved into Ron's room, and he and Ron enjoyed the rest of the holidays with only a minimum of studying. Ron, of course, was still baffled by Harry's strange obsession with _learning things_ in the mornings, but by the time he woke up Harry had usually contributed to breakfast and taken a few notes – no magic with Mrs Weasley around, of course. He was generally accepting of Harry's curious questions over meals so long as they were followed by a game or games of some sort for the rest of the day.

The last morning at the Burrow dawned all too soon, and Harry was slightly more organised than his fellows as the rest of the household was rushing around, half-dressed, still hungry, and searching for lost socks, and quills, and missing homework. It was quite the nostalgic feeling.

Without Hedwig to worry about, all Harry concerned himself with was his magical trunk, out of which none of his possessions tended to stray long, and so his morning responsibilities were easily completed.

Having expected the chaos, he merely collected his own trunk with the twist of a key and popped it easily into the back of Mr Weasley's Ford Anglia early on. He had special memories of the little blue car and gave it a cheerful pat on the bonnet as he slammed closed the boot.

It left Harry and Percy to stand patiently by the car together, the only two people ready and waiting to leave.

Harry turned hopefully to the older boy by his side. "Percy, have you sent Hermes on ahead already?"

"Hrm? No, not yet," Percy answered curiously. "I was thinking of waiting until the train so that I could send him back when Ron or Ginny realise they have forgotten their wands or new quills, or whatever it will be. Why do you ask?"

"I suppose that makes sense," said Harry, a slightly guilty feeling arising in his gut. "I was wondering if I could borrow him again."

"You asked about that when school ended," Percy recalled. "Yes, I am amenable to that. Might I enquire as to why you don't have your own? A good post owl is generally considered a very good investment, in case you were not aware."

Harry grimaced a little at the memory of Hedwig and had to fudge the truth. "My muggle relatives aren't really comfortable with wizarding pets," he said, which was true enough. "And I can't really look after one well when I'm at home during the holidays."

Percy nodded sagely, before retrieving Hermes' cage from inside the car and passing the owl Harry's way. Harry felt a bit abashed that he hadn't noticed the great screech owl so close. He pulled out his little pouch with the undetectable extension charm, his wand securely concealed within, and set about attaching it firmly to Hermes outstretched leg.

"May I ask what you need Hermes for?" Percy inquired amiably while Harry fussed about.

Harry didn't quite know what to say. "Um…well…it's something…do you mind if I don't explain?" Harry had to ask. "Sorry, it's kind of awkward…"

"Say no more," Percy rushed to assure Harry. "I would have thought you were a little young, but I quite understand. Your secret is quite safe with me, Harry."

"Er." Harry scrunched his eyebrows. "Thanks." Harry had no idea what Percy was assuming, but it drew to mind some of the contraband that Seamus and Dean had snuck into Hogwarts around fifth or sixth year. Still, the misunderstanding suited his purposes perfectly.

Harry was finally happy with Hermes' package, and whispered a few quiet instructions to take the long way to Hogwarts and deliver it to Harry himself in the Gryffindor tower before bed. Hermes hooted with dignity and flew off, leaving Harry to turn his attention to Percy, and ponder what Percy's strange understanding might be.

Percy helped him along by stepping closer, and leaning down to murmur conspiratorially, "I hope a little advice would not be taken astray, Harry, but it might be best if you avoided this topic around Fred and George. While certainly not bad people, might I suggest that they might be a little…indelicate, in regards to matters of the heart?"

Oh. He'd been wrong. Percy must be more pure-minded than Seamus and Dean. Harry realised that he had just given Percy the impression that he had a secret girlfriend, and then remembered that Percy would naturally be thinking this because Percy had one too.

"Thanks, Percy." Harry smiled up at the older Weasley with as much solemnity as he could muster. He was appreciating Percy more than he thought he would, now that they knew each other better. The older boy was surprisingly thoughtful, generous to a fault, and Harry really couldn't hold his unusual formality against him. It was certainly a natural reaction against the boisterous nature of Fred and George, after all. "I'll bear that in mind."

He and Percy shared a nod, before returning to their positions, and continuing to wait for the rest of the family to leave the house.

Finally they had collected all their possessions, and Harry met a shame-faced Mr Weasley's gaze as they all scrambled into the curiously comfortable small car.

He answered the man's nervous winks with a quiet nod, as the two of them manfully agreed to keep Mr Weasley's magical tinkering a secret from the masses, and more particularly, his wife.

* * *

The whole crowd of them reached King's Cross station with fifteen minutes to spare, and while Mr Weasley dashed across the space to collect the trolleys for their trunks, Harry was interested to see a couple of suspiciously magical families hurrying in the same direction.

What with Apparition and the floo network travelling right through Britain, the hoops to jump through in order to get to Hogwarts seemed rather strange to Harry. He fell in behind the rushing Weasley family, pondering thoughtfully as they dashed through the station.

Without too much more fuss, they reached the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

"Percy first," said Mrs Weasley, after glancing at the clock, which showed they had a generous seven minutes left to get onto the train.

Percy strode through the barrier briskly, and, his memory unusually precise regarding this event, Harry stepped forward.

"How about me next?" he asked, and Mrs Weasley smiled at him maternally.

"Very well dear, your turn," she said, and Harry turned to the wall with a deep breath, thinking of Dobby.

The moment of truth.

Casually, he stepped forward and leaned gently against the barrier. His sideways glance showed him the whole family arranged around the wall like an artistic tableau, each of them posed to seem strangely interested in different items vaguely in the distance.

Harry sighed a little as Mr Weasley met his eyes, and leaned a little harder. Unexpectedly, he hit the wall and bounced. With each little jolt, Harry felt his stomach sink a little lower.

The short red-head man stepped forward in concern as Harry remained stubbornly on the wrong side of the platform entrance.

"Alright there, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked with some concern.

Harry muttered something about the wall being blocked.

"Here, let me try," Mr Weasley offered, and leaned his shoulder up next to Harry's. "Ooomph," he said, and bounced off the wall. "Pushed a bit too hard there, I think." Mr Weasley rubbed his shoulder carefully. "Perhaps one more try...?"

The family milled around in confusion as Mr Weasley failed to vanish into the barrier a second time. Mr Weasley scratched his head, before pulling out his wand and casting a number of spells at the brick in front of him.

The family around him drew closer in confusion, and then went back to staring carefully into the distance as though there was _nothing to see here, folks_.

"Strange," muttered Mr Weasley. "It should all be working fine."

Harry thought of Dobby fondly, if with a certain amount of frustration. Clearly the little elf had come down on the side of increasing his protection of Harry. The upcoming year was rapidly coming to seem more complicated.

Another family wheeled up behind them, a covered owl cage perched precariously on top of the luggage trolley. From behind them, Harry noticed a couple of muggles eye the little crowd strangely.

The new wizarding family also attempted to lean through the gate with Harry, and shared puzzled questions with the surrounding Weasley clan.

The other adult wizards also cast a few diagnostic spells on the wall but similarly failed to find any problem. A plainclothes Ministry official rapidly approached and attempted the same tests.

Finally, Arthur scratched his head.

"Well, we don't know what's wrong, but we can't just stand here. We'll pop you through with Apparition and pass the problem on."

Harry felt his arm being grasped by Mr Weasley and grasped wildly for his luggage. With a familiar pop, the two arrived successfully on the other side of the barrier.

Percy was waiting around for them in puzzlement. Waving him off with a hand, Mr Weasley Apparated away and returned this time with George, and the platform soon began to fill up with Weasleys as each underage wizard was ferried on through by an adult.

Having resolved the short-term problem, Mr Weasley nodded goodbye to them all and wandered away to speak further with the Ministry official, a tall man with a balding head. Meanwhile, Mrs Weasley fussed over her children for a few more minutes.

Hermione and her parents approached almost immediately. According to Hermione, they had had no trouble getting through the barrier, arriving as they had a good few minutes earlier.

Neville and his grandmother approached soon after, and with only the usual fuss and bother, the students were organised onto the train.

* * *

"Right you are then, Harry," one of the twins finally uttered, having heaved all the other luggage up onto the overhead nets. "We're off to find Lee. He said he'd be saving us a seat with some very charming chasers and we don't trust him with the girls all alone. Look after our munchkin for us, will you?" He ruffled Ginny's head roughly. "Oh, and Ron, I suppose."

"Sure," Harry grinned up at him. "Anything for you lot."

"Now that's the right attitude," the twin grinned back. "You certainly know who to keep pleased around here, at any rate. Percy will be by sometime if you have any problems, I'm sure."

Fred and George farewelled the compartment cheerfully and dashed off to get into who-knows-what kind of mischief, leaving Harry and his friends to settle down for the train ride.

Her hair unforgettably mussed, Ginny silently settled herself down in the seat opposite Harry, next to Hermione. Her wand was clutched tightly in her hand and she seemed rather pale, even for her.

"Nerves," Neville whispered in Harry's ear, as they sat watching Hermione trying to set her to rights, combing out the long ginger strands with her fingers, muttering encouraging words. Unfortunately, Ginny seemed to mostly ignore her, her feverish eyes fixedly staring at Harry instead.

Harry found it slightly uncomfortable to be the constant focus of Ginny's very fixed gaze, but did his best to ignore the pressure and exchange pleasantries with the others. Ron, unfortunately, did not help. Fiddling about with his pockets, Ron retrieved sandwiches, his rat – promptly stuffing him back, Liquorice Wands, a piece of string and a rock with a hole in it, before finally emerging with a pack of cards in triumph.

"Aha!" He finally exclaimed. "I knew I had them somewhere. What about a game o–"

At which point, the pack of Exploding Snap cards blew up in his face.

Ron dropped the scorching cards from his hand and shook the pain away. Somewhat tiredly, he swore a few times – reminding Ginny not to tell on him – before settling down in his seat with a slouch. "Damn the twins," he muttered, defeated. "Should have guessed. They were being too nice before."

Harry shared a wide-eyed look with Neville, and they both stifled their chuckles. Ron's face, usually very pale, was covered in black soot, with the exception of his eyelids. They stood out from his face like comets in the night. He'd obviously scrunched his eyes tight shut just as the explosion had occurred. His eyebrows, short as they were, stood up stiff and somewhat curly on his head, and the previously pristine, red leather seats of the compartment looked significantly dirtier. There was an outline of soot on the wall behind Ron's head.

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione muttered, before leaving off Ginny's hair to fuss over him instead. "Just look at you."

Neville, having finished his laugh, took a deep breath and choked. Harry jerked in surprise as his friend inhaled a lungful of green, brackish smoke and began coughing, shoulder-shaking, gasping coughs.

Amused, Harry bashing him on the back to help.

As the chaos subsided, Harry sat back into his seat. He had overcome another obstacle in his path for this year, and even without the Pensieve, was pretty sure everything was on track for a successful year. And what was Hogwarts without a little chaos from the twins, after all?

The compartment door was opened a couple of times by hopeful student whose faces fell in disappointment to see the full compartment. The Patil sisters and an older Hufflepuff waved cheerfully at Harry and his friends in greeting before moving on, but there wasn't much time for anything more to happen before the whistle blew and the Express took off with shrill squeals and steaming clouds of smoke.

"So," said Harry, as the platform faded out of sight. "How are you feeling about Hogwarts this year, Ginny?"

She turned beetroot in front of his gaze and muttered something Harry couldn't hear.

"Oh. I…see." He nodded. "And you, uh…you have anything in particular that you're looking forward to?"

"…sorghingumforss…" Ginny seemed to mumble back.

Harry meet Hermione's amused gaze across the compartment and raised his eyebrows at her meaningfully.

She rose to the occasion. "Do you think you'll have a favourite subject, Ginny?"

"…"

"She'll be good at Charms, I reckon," Ron volunteered, just as Ginny rallied her courage to mutter, "Defense?"

Neville smiled encouragingly as he leaned forward on his seat. "What House do you think you'll get into?"

Ron snorted. "Gryffindor, of course! She's a Weasley, after all."

All eyes shot to Ginny, whose ferocious blush deepened, even as she nodded in agreement.

Cocking her head, Hermione sighed. "Ron, let her speak for herself, won't you?"

"She's my sister, don't you know?"

Hermione huffed. "Just because she's a girl, doesn't mean –"

"Just because you have an inferiority complex doesn't mean –"

Surprisingly, it was Neville who cut across the building tension with a firm voice, asking, "Ginny. Do you have any friends coming to school with you this year, do you know?"

"Not really," Ginny mumbled.

"Eh?" Harry blurted, but Ron interrupted him with a blasé, "She doesn't need much though, does she? She's got her family, and she'll have Gryffindor in a bit."

"There is that," Harry admitted absently, but he lost track of the conversation as his mind wandered. Hadn't she grown up with little Luna Lovegood? He knew they were neighbours.

But they hadn't organised to sit together on the train now, had they.

The thought of his quirky blonde friend stayed with him as the train flashed out of London, as Percy poked his head in the door, as he lost a number of games of Exploding Snap, as the trolley witch came. The thought still hadn't left him as Hermione kicked the boys of the compartment so that she and Ginny could change into their robes early.

Harry leaned against the scratched-up doorway into the compartment thoughtfully. He'd been so sure that Ginny had been good friends with Luna as children; that she'd lost contact with her because of the diary – which he'd fixed now, thank Merlin.

Had he somehow misinterpreted something?

When the girls finally let the boys back through the door, Harry got changed himself, half-heartedly.

"Oi, mate! You've got the robe on backwards," drew him back into the real world for a while, but eventually the worry in his mind became too much. She'd been so badly bullied in the last timeline…

"Sorry, guys," Harry stood with a self-conscious smile. "I'm gonna go wander the train a while. Does anyone want to come with?"

"Nah, mate," Ron muttered, his face more sooty than ever, sitting himself down and picking up the cards again. "I've got to get Neville off of this steak of luck he's on."

"Sorry, Harry," Neville grinned, echoing Ron's movements. "You know how it is."

As Harry's gaze travelled around the room, Ginny meeped. Hermione shook her head also. "I'll stay here, I think, if you don't mind. I'm not feeling that great, so I'll just stay and rest."

Ginny needed the company; that was fair. Harry closed the door as they all bent their heads back towards the pile of cards on the fold-out table.

Harry meandered down the train carriage slowly. The rhythmic rattle of the floorboards beneath his feet was comforting in its familiarity. The scuffed tread of his footsteps and the gentle rattle of doors in their frames added to the pattern. Harry passed a few closed doors and peeked in their windows to see if Luna was sitting in them, but only unfamiliar faces came to view.

Useless.

Then the thought occurred to him, quite suddenly, that he had never made the effort to visit other people on the train before; he'd always waited for others to visit him. Perhaps he had been…taking advantage of his fame, somewhat?

The realisation shamed the adult-Harry inside of him, and he stopped attempting to peer through the corridor window into the compartment he stood next to.

Instead, he knocked briskly on the door before pushing it open.

"Er…hi," he muttered immediately. Five curiously friendly faces looked back at him, in Hufflepuff colours.

"Who are you, sweetheart?" One of the girls – they were all girls, Harry noticed – smiled at him, her dimples showing. "Are you a first year? Are you lost?"

"Do you need a prefect?" one of the others asked, before Harry could make his mouth work.

Harry had barely opened his mouth to speak before one of them close to the door gasped loudly. "Ohmygosh! You're _him!_ You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

There was chaos.

Someone marvelled loudly, "He's so small!"

"Just look at his hair!" another girl wondered.

"Can you see the scar?"

"Do you think he does autographs?"

"Do you think he does hugs?"

"Hang on, I'm sure I have a Potter Spotter column somewhere. Can I borrow a quill?"

Harry staggered backwards. "Nevermind. Wrong room! Sorry!" He slammed the door shut.

He dashed over to the next compartment door and yanked it open quickly in his enthusiasm to get away.

A couple of Ravenclaw boys looked up at him from waist height, having apparently been asleep on the long seats.

"My mistake," Harry muttered, and backed out slowly.

He travelled down the carriage somewhat more carefully after that, and, not having found who he was looking for, then carefully stepped outside and across the coupling to enter the next carriage down.

He discovered Fred and George with some of the Quidditch team, waved at Cedric Diggory, and said hello to a couple of his year mates in Ravenclaw in short order. He was about to enter the last carriage when he ran into Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy." Harry nodded.

"Potter."

"…How were your holidays, after that?"

Malfoy sniffed as if it were a habit. "Not bad. My parents took me to Paris."

Harry was about to step past him, but then Malfoy continued. "I found a replacement Defense book since we last spoke. Did you…Are your own plans finalised?"

"What? Oh. Yes." Harry was startled that the conversation was continuing.

"That's a relief," Malfoy smirked. "I didn't think you could speak French."

Harry wasn't certain what Malfoy was implying, because the obvious implication just couldn't be right.

"True."

"I thought as much."

Harry scowled, but Malfoy stepped back, waving Harry on. "Off you go then, Potter. If you need any help with your classwork, do let me know." He smirked, and Harry felt the sudden urge to smack his face. "Some help could be made available, for a price."

"Whatever. Oi, Malfoy," Harry called just as he was about to step outside. "Have you thought about this one? How fast would a broomstick have to travel in this corridor to stop it travelling backwards in the train?" He jerked the door open with a click, and rushed outside before Malfoy could respond.

* * *

Unfortunately, Luna was not in the last carriage either, which meant that Harry had walked the wrong way down the train. He made his way back up the carriage he came from, intending to go on, but a small fuss by the girls' bathrooms ruined his plans.

"What's up?" asked Harry, and a frustrated Padma spun around in relief.

"Potter? Oh, thank goodness. You sort it out. I've simply _got _to go." To Harry's bemusement, she spun around and dashed up the corridor leaving him standing alone awkwardly in front of the girls' bathroom door.

"Patil?" he called, but she disappeared out the door as he did so, leaving him rubbing his neck in an awkward silence.

Tentatively, Harry craned his neck forward and spoke quietly in the empty corridor. "H-hello?"

He waiting anxiously, and a raucous rumble of laughter from a nearby compartment made him jump.

Shuffling his feet, Harry wandered over to the boys' door, which was unfortunately obviously empty.

He scuffed his way back in front of the girls' room with hunched shoulders. "Um…hello? Anyone in there?" Heart racing, his knuckles brushed up against the door in two light knocks.

To Harry's surprise, Hermione's questioning voice quavered out of the door. "Padma? Is that you?"

"Hermione?" Harry asked, much relieved. "Thank goodness it's you. Patil just left me here. Are you alright?"

"Harry?" Now that Harry was listening, Hermione's voice sounded rather high. "Harry? Oh, thank goodness. Look, Harry. I need your help."

Feeling significantly less like a pervert, although discomforted by talking to someone in the girls' loo, Harry relaxed further. "Sure. What's up?"

She spoke very quickly as she replied. "Nothing much. Nothing much at all. Listen, Harry. Can I just borrow your wand for a sec?"

"Sure," Harry smiled, before… "Uh…I don't have it with me."

"What?"

"I, uh, left it in my trunk," Harry lied.

"Can you go and fetch it for me?" Hermione quavered. "Quickly? Before anyone else comes?"

"Well…" Harry deferred, knowing that his wand was taking the long route to Hogwarts as he spoke. "It's right at the bottom of my trunk, I think. You know what the holidays are like. Shall I go and fetch yours?"

"No!" Hermione yelped. "Mine's also in my trunk. Under my robes, and…underthings. Can't I just borrow yours?"

Starting to wonder, Harry inquired, "What's wrong, Hermione? Do you need a...um…a potion?"

She giggled a little hysterically. "No! No, I'm fine. It's not my stomach, Harry. Don't worry."

"Are you stuck or something?"

"Something like that."

"Do you need me to break the door down?"

"No!" Hermione moaned. "No! Can you just go a find a wand before someone else comes?"

Utterly confused, Harry leaned his arm up against the door frame in concern. "What's wrong, Hermione? Do you need to talk about something? I'm happy to listen, if you do?"

"Just a wand," she wailed. "I don– Just a wand, Harry. Please?"

His eyebrows scrunched in confusion, "You want me to talk to Neville?"

"Not Neville," Hermione snapped quickly. "Anyone but Neville."

"I thought…" Harry began, before remembered that Hermione was overwrought. "Ron, then?"

Hermione let out a little wail that was halfway between a giggle and a moan. "Oh Merlin, that's even worse."

"…Ginny?" Harry ventured.

"Not Ginny," Hermione's voice murmured from behind the door. "She's too young."

Utterly confused, Harry nevertheless imbued his voice with all the confidence he could manage and spoke slowly and calmly. "Alright, Hermione. You stay here and don't worry. I'll go and sort this out and come back soon. Alright?"

He scampered back a few minutes later and gently shooed away a fifth year Slytherin who was knocking at Hermione's door.

"Ginny couldn't find your wand," Harry had to report, leaning against the door frame in apology. "She had a really good look, took a bunch of stuff out – she put it all back again, of course – but she couldn't find your wand, sorry."

Hermione whimpered. "Did you see everything?"

"Well, not everything, of course."

"Of course," Hermione seemed to sigh. "At least she put it all back. Did she loan you her wand instead?"

"Oh," Harry mouthed. "I think I forgot to ask. I'll be right back."

"Don't ask Ron or Neville," Hermione begged him. "Just…keep it quiet, alright?"

Turning, Harry prepared to sweep down the corridor and dash back into their compartment. Instead, he walked smack bang into Zacharias Smith.

"Potter," the taller boy complained. "What _have_ you been doing in front of the ladies' washroom? A few of the girls are uncomfortable with your presence, if you understand where I'm going."

"Smith," Harry beamed. "How convenient. Look, Smith, I know we're not close but there's a bit of a situation and…do you think I could borrow your wand?"

"What?" Smith recoiled in indignation. "Are you mad?"

"…What?" Harry echoed, utterly confused. "It'll be just for a minute, I think, won't it, Hermione?"

"Harry?" Her voice echoed out from the door. "Who's out there with you? Do have a wand for me?"

Smith huffed in Harry's general direction and sent a scathing look towards Hermione's door. "Are you playing me, or do you genuinely not know?"

"I don't get it." Harry quirked his head.

Scowling, Smith muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Harry to catch a few words. "…rumours you were muggle-raised, but…obnoxiously uncouth…"

Harry crossed his arms. "I _still _don't get it." Harry raised an eyebrow. "But if it's not important, do you think you could tell me _while_ Hermione borrows your wand?"

Utterly exasperated, Smith rolled his eyes. "Potter, surely even you have noticed that wizards don't just casual _loan_ wands around like quills? A wand bonds to one wizard, don't you realise? Disrespecting that bond is positively churlish, even if you are the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Well, it would be only for a moment," Harry tried.

"Show some respect," Smith scolded. "I would have presumed that with a father like yours you could have valued your culture a little more, but blood will tell, they say."

"Right," Harry drawled, heat rising to his head. He took a couple of calming breathes and practiced his Occlumency. "Thanks for that glowing endorsement. I'll certainly bear that in mind. In the meantime," he scowled up at Smith with all the impatience he could muster, "Hermione's having a crisis, so I think I'll just go and find someone _useful_, if you don't mind."

"And what is wrong with her, that's caused you to hover outside the ladies' facilities?"

Uncertain himself, Harry huffed. "Never you mind."

He rushed back shortly after and rapped on the door. "Are you still there? Hermione? It's okay now, I didn't go to any of the boys. I brought Percy here instead."

"…Percy?" Hermione's voice quivered, and she snuffled somewhat wetly. "Oh, Harry…" She seemed to sigh. "Thanks, Harry. Um…Percy? Are you there?"

Percy puffed his skinny chest out like a proud pigeon.

"Miss," Percy began pompously. He coughed. "Hermione? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing important," Hermione's voice dropped. "Sorry for bothering you. I…Can I just borrow your wand, please?"

"Well," Percy blinked owlishly. "It's not really done, don't you know."

"Just one little spell!" Hermione seemed to beg.

"I'm afraid I'm not really comfortable with that." Percy hesitated, sharing a blank look with Harry at his side. "Dare I venture, are you perhaps having troubles of a delicate nature?"

"Yes!" Hermione seemed to sob. "Yes, you could say that."

"Oh, dear," Percy murmured, looking surprisingly like his father at that moment. "Oh dear, oh dear. And," he hesitated, "dare I confirm, are they _boy problems_?"

Hermione did that high-pitched, watery little giggle again that made Harry feel quite concerned. "_Boy_ problems?" she echoed. "Oh, Morgana. No, they're not _boy_ problems."

Quite befuddled, Percy stopped and stared at Harry in surprise. "No?" All his prefectly superiority seemed to bleed out of him, leaving Percy looking quite deflated in front of Harry's eyes.

Harry, his mouth half open for words that hadn't come, glanced rapidly between Percy's face and Hermione's closed door. He knew Hermione's inflections well after so many years.

"Hermione," Harry began very, very slowly. "Hermione, are you having _girl_ problems?"

"…Just one little spell," Hermione mumbled. "Just a wand. Please."

Harry, still feeling quite baffled, looked back at a rapidly paling Percy with hesitation. "Do you need to curse someone?" Harry asked in confusion.

Percy interrupted. "You, you," he muttered, and Harry watched in fascination as all the blood rushed back into his face, darkening it to a beautiful radish-pink. "You stay right there. Harry, go….somewhere else. I'll…I'll fetch Penelope."

Harry began to ask what was going on. "Wh-?"

"Go on," Percy encouraged, his hands beginning to flap. "Penelope will know what to do," he insisted, and dashed off down the train.

"Hermione?" Harry asked.

"…Thanks, Harry," Hermione's voice muttered quietly. "You go on and grab a seat again. We'll probably be arriving soon-ish."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"You did fine," Hermione's voice smiled. "Just…just don't worry about it anymore. Did you," she hesitated, "did you happen to tell many people about me being stuck in here?"

"Oh no," Harry reassured her. "I only mentioned it to Ron, Neville and Ginny. And Percy, of course."

"…Of course…"

"And," Harry hesitated, counting on his fingers, "of course, the Patil twin knows, since she was here when I arrived, so the other Patil will know soon too. So, Lavender as well, I guess. And Smith, who you know didn't want to help."

"…"

"And that Slytherin girl," Harry added, with a cringe. "And now, Penelope? Did you, maybe, not want many people to know?"

"Go and have a seat," Hermione instructed. "Thanks for your help, Harry."

He wandered back to the compartment dejectedly, still not quite sure precisely where things had gone wrong.

Eventually a pale Hermione rejoined them all in their compartment, holding her stomach tightly but otherwise seeming alright. Both Harry and Neville fussed over her, offering Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes, but Hermione seemed strangely subdued as she nibbled on them. Harry had the awful sinking feeling in his stomach again, that somehow, he had dealt with this all wrong. Perhaps he should have flown the car to Hogwarts after all.

* * *

The uncomfortable train ride finally ended, and Harry lurked by Hermione's side as he and his friends entered one of the coaches and Ginny nervously toddled off towards the hulking silhouette of Hagrid at the far end of the tiny platform.

Their coach ride was strangely subdued, Hermione occasionally grimacing, and Harry maintaining a nervously concerned silence. Elsewhere, however, the noise levels rose the closer the coaches drew to Hogwarts.

The whole student body was clearly excited to be back. Filing through the main doors and into the Great Hall, hyperactive voices bounced off the ceiling until they were firmly repressed by the teachers present.

Little Ginny entered the room with the other anxious first years, another anxious huddle of people that Harry suddenly felt quite empathetic for. Luna was there too, Harry finally realised. Her silver-blonde hair glimmered in the candlelight, and it was quick work to find her standing dreamily off to one side of the crowd. Harry wondered, with knowledge borne of long familiarity, if Luna might be looking a little less dazed than usual.

Finally the whispers died down, and the Sorting Hat took centre stage to display its lyrical talent. Despite the lingering sense of guilt and confusion, Harry perked up in interest. This time last timeline, he'd been fighting off the Whomping Willow about now: he'd never heard this song.

In the dead silence, the Sorting Hat, bizarrely, seemed to clear its throat. The tear in its brim widened. Harry sat forward in eagerness, and heard:

"_Your next few steps on Hogwarts grounds_

_Direct your future years._

_Each first foot forward and unproved step _

_Is witnessed by your peers._

_But different folks have different needs_

_And grow a unique way._

_The Hogwarts Houses thus define_

_How you will work and play._

_Each disposition has a House_

_To which it belongs best, _

_So join like minds __and learn your strengths_

_For life is but a test._

_Sly Slytherin wants those with guile,_

_Who dream of great acclaim,_

_Know, if you wish to join his House,_

_Ambition leads to fame._

_Bold Gryffindor accepts the Brave, _

_Who face up to their fears,_

_The skills you learn by forging forward_

_Support you through the years._

_Fair Ravenclaw, admiring Wit,_

_Wants those who love to learn._

_For great success comes step by step,_

_It's something you must earn._

_And as for Hufflepuff the Just,_

_She loves the loyal and kind,_

_True friends and noble vocation_

_Both take an earnest mind._

_So set this cap upon your heads, _

_I will not steer you wrong._

_The Sorting Hat's just what you need_

_To find where you belong!"_

The room filled with applause and Harry joined in with the rest of the room. It had been a while since he heard a Sorting Song, Harry reflected as the clamour died down, and it was positively nostalgic to hear one that was so carefree.

Why, no warnings about House unity or troubled times, at all. He wondered if it had been the same song as last timeline.

He turned to Hermione, on his right, and actually began asking, before his brain caught up with his mouth with one long-patient glance from her.

"Hey Hermione, was the…Uh, never mind." This Hermione hadn't been with him in the last timeline. He was quite alone in his knowledge.

He smiled awkwardly as she turned to look at him, and felt a strange heaviness on his shoulders as she looked away silently. Was she angry with him?

"Sorry, sorry," Harry cringed. "Look, McGonagall's starting!"

Professor McGonagall began calling the first years forward in her Scottish brogue.

Harry had never seen any of these people Sorted in his last timeline, and sat up straight to pay attention. It also served to take his mind off other things. He had friends in this cohort. He wondered how childhood suited them.

"Creevey, Colin," was called up quite quickly. Harry noticed with a pang that the small boy's camera was already hanging around his neck.

"Lovegood, Luna," was sorted into Ravenclaw without much fuss, the hat taking only a short time to call out her new House.

Harry watched her closely as she tottered over to her new House table. She looked fine, Harry was pleased to note. She certainly seemed happy to be sorted into Ravenclaw.

Ron's attention began lapsing, and Neville's stomach gurgled before, "Weasley, Ginny," was finally called, her pale face growing whiter as the pressure mounted. Ron snapped back to attention and grasped his seat; Harry noticed his knuckles go white with tension. But the hat barely touched her head, before, "GRYFFINDOR!" was called out to the hall, and the table at which Harry sat erupted in cheers.

Personally, he thought that Fred and George were pretty good blokes, but at that moment he could easily see why Ginny might find them a little overwhelming as older brothers.

"WEASLEY! WEASLEY! WEASLEY!" They climbed up on their seats and shouted over the Gryffindor clapping and whistling. Ginny flushed tomato-red as she stood up from the sorting stool. Lee Jordon joined in with the chant as the twins started a stamp-clap rhythm. McGonagall scowled furiously their way as the Ginny ducked her head and scurried in mortification to the empty end of the table. Harry couldn't help but notice that Ron was nodding his head to the rhythm of the call.

Their impromptu cheer call finally wound down, McGonagall finished her list, and the Hogwarts welcoming feast began.


	10. Over-warm Welcome

From that point on, the year settled into a routine for Harry relatively quickly. He fell straight back into his study routine with ease, most promisingly managing to avoid getting dragged into any one-on-one conversations with Professor Lockhart. Perhaps his implied threat of stealing his thunder had had more effect that he'd hoped.

It was two days after he arrived that Harry checked the safety of Riddle's diary and was pleased to see it lying still and unmoved in the third compartment where he had left it. Standing there on the steps looking down at the innocuous little book bound in leather, he was stunned to feel a strange sense of haste to destroy it immediately well up inside him.

Tension rose in his shoulders; his fingertips tingled.

Resisting the impulse, Harry did not draw his wand; in this timeline the basilisk waking was not part of his plans. No action was urgent…although he wouldn't get the Sword of Gryffindor absorbing the venom, either, Harry realised with a jolt. But hey, the castle was safe, the Basilisk was sleeping, the horcrux was secure. He could grow stronger at his own pace and destroy the Basilisk when he was ready. There was time to find other solutions. There was no need to be on edge.

Still standing in his third compartment, Harry decided not to experience with Fiendfyre or the A_vada Kedavra_ just yet, either. He was planning to be a better man this timeline. That was a thorny path he didn't want to take.

As such, he promptly determined to avoid thinking of the diary. Focus on the good things, good things, Harry decided. Nevertheless, he mused as he turned and left his luggage, it would be reassuring to see all the little baby mandrakes being grown under the careful supervision of Professor Sprout.

As classes settled in properly, Harry was pleased to discover that his hard-won study had paid dividends. He soon learned that Transfiguration class remained easy for him, what with his natural abilities in practical wandwork and his extra practice. McGonagall sent two mildly impressed looks Harry's way that first lesson, and mentioned he "was his father's son" at least once within his hearing that first week.

What was more surprising was the apparent increase in his theoretical knowledge. As McGonagall stood upright at the front of the room, her long fingers gesturing elegantly and spoke of the Laws of Transmutation, recapped animate to inanimate transformations, Harry felt sparks pop in his mindscape. Enlightened, he realised _how_ the theory was significant, how an unhuman will and a network of dazzling logic caused his Transfiguration to hang together miraculously, just beyond his understanding. For a mystical moment, it all seemed to _clear. _Then he reached out to touch it and the pattern faded, frustratingly escaping beyond his grasp.

A similar thing happened in Charms and, somewhat to Harry's surprise, Defence remained manageable too.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was totally focussed around the heroic mythology of Gilderoy Lockhart, of course, and as such contained many cringe-worthy personal references in preference to actual _facts_ about anything. Sitting in class with his open textbook – Quirrell's second-year textbook, on Harry's part, and with a healthy _notice-me-not_ cast just in case – he observed how his classmates actually treated the man before focusing on his own work.

Surprisingly, Lockhart did actually seem to be genuinely popular, Harry mused as he chewed on the tip of his quill and headed up the top of his notes. The man was a born story-teller; for those students – _coughGryffindorscough_ – who had not done the class readings, Lockhart's opening story was positively thrilling. _Holidaying with Hags_ indeed. Harry was loath to admit the fact even now that he wasn't taking part in any dramatic re-enactments, but the man could command the stage. Even the boys, Harry was surprised to note, were perched on the edges of the seats this first dramatic lesson.

Ironically for Harry, who had decided to sit in the back row to better focus on his own study plans, he found Binn's History class to be preferable in some ways. The old ghost's monotonous drone was easily tuned out and ignored, providing a surprisingly effective 'white noise' that helped him focus on his own work. Lockhart, on the other hand, did not seem to get a steady pace going.

"And then," Lockhart paused dramatically, interrupting Harry's critical thinking _again_, "what do you think happened? Thomas, was it?"

The startled audience member blinked in the face of all the attention and mumbled a guess.

"Precisely!" Lockhart crowed loudly. "My dear chap, you must have read the book!" A cheerful wink; a grin. Then his voice lowered to an intense, precise clip, and after another pause: "Why, then, as I lay in that shrubbery for two days and three nights, you could not imagine the agony of my morals. Was she, I wondered, simply a misunderstood single lady, rejected from her peers by simple virtue of her less-than-attractive face?"

His voice built up, and his speed of delivery increased, causing Harry at the back of the room to shuffle and try blocking his ears another way.

"Could I possibly," Lockhart appealed, "add injury to insult as I reached the end of my hunt? Was I simply adding to her pain and pathos? Were all her problems a misunderstanding based on her hideously disfigured face and a shy demeanour? Or," he spun on his heel and growled menacingly, "was she truly the eater of children and scourge of the village, as I had been told? I," he grandly proclaimed, "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League and five-times winner of the _Witch Weekly'_s Most-Charming Smile Award could not find it in me to back down from the challenge!"

Harry readjusted his seating again and made a note to research muffling spells that affected the listener rather than the target immediately after class.

However, considering his developing experience with self-managed study schedules, once a few kinks in his plan had been worked out, Harry thought he'd be surprisingly happy to work through the textbook on his own.

In the meantime, he was well prepared to face the disastrous pixie lesson and found himself relatively composed when facing the prospect of the upcoming lessons.

History of Magic, Herbology, and Astronomy lessons remained unremarkable as Harry routinely visited them all. With his now-established practice of a Dicta-quill recording Professor Binn's lectures, Harry managed to find his way through the History readings on his own and then begin to branch out some. It was gratifying to see Hermione bend this year, and stoop to using the same technique.

It was only about a week into the school year when Harry discovered the wonder that was appendices, and his self-directed learning grew more varied from that point on. He was beginning to see why Hermione found such enjoyment in planning study…but only beginning, mind.

It was really only Potions that kept Harry on his toes, although he couldn't really say with any honesty that he had expected otherwise; even then it was Snape's biting comments and unyielding hatred that added a nostalgic spice to the lessons.

Outside of classes, Harry made tentative overtures of friendship towards Ginny that were sometimes received with a smile, and occasionally with mortification; her crush would sporadically cause in her some great failure of coordination.

Little Colin Creevey was offered a photo of Harry that had recently been taken with a wizarding camera, and was so excited to write that to his parents that he forgot to thank Harry for his gift.

Life seemed good.

* * *

As the first days of school turned into weeks and everything began settling into a routine, Harry finally gave up hoping for a coincidental meeting with Luna and set out to look for her himself.

One empty Saturday afternoon when Hermione and Ron were engaged in a riveting chess battle, with Neville looking on, Harry left his common room behind to range the halls, hoping to find her.

He wandered through the library and peered out the windows at the lake. She was not even at the Quidditch pitch, although Harry had already assumed it was a futile hope.

His best chance was to ask one of her Housemates. Arriving at the base of the Ravenclaw Tower, Harry faltered. Should he climb the stairs himself? Or be more polite about his request? What was the official custom for visiting other House common rooms anyway? Was he supposed to know where it was, anyway? Harry scratched his head, not being currently Polyjuiced or under an Invisibility Cloak as he had always been previously.

Fortunately his luck was good, and Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater happened to stride down the stairs and straight past him.

"Excuse me!" Harry called out, and she halted suddenly, spinning around as his hand managed to snag her on a sleeve. "Sorry! I'm looking for a friend, but I can't go up the Tower myself. Could you help me out? Please?" Harry finished his sentence hopefully, once again mustering up the innocent, wide-eyed gaze of an innocent twelve-year-old in his attempt to pass as a young child.

She looked at his expression sharply but moderated her tone when she replied.

Harry rapidly explained his predicament, and her general disinterest melted into prefectly approval as she learned of his dilemma.

Ten minutes later, Penelope had trotted back up the Tower and returned with a very small first-year, Luna Lovegood. There was only a brief scolding about respecting House boundaries before he and Luna were left alone. Apparently she had 'heard of his reputation' and was giving him 'the benefit of the doubt just this once'.

Harry ferried Luna down the hallway and into a private window-seat before he began the baffling conversation that was sure to follow. She was wearing shoes, Harry noticed. It was a good start.

"Hello," he managed, settling down on the padded seat.

"Hello," Luna replied demurely. "You're Harry Potter."

"I am," Harry replied after a brief pause. "And you're Luna Lovegood."

"Apparently."

Harry took this in his stride. There was another small silence as both parties looked at each other patiently. Harry had assumed the conversation would flow more naturally than this, and was somewhat unsure of how to explain his actions, now that Luna was before him. For her part, Luna appeared supremely unsurprised to be dragged down from her bedroom by a Ravenclaw Prefect to meet the famous Boy-Who-Lived on his request. The quirk of her eyebrows that gave her that permanently surprised look gave Harry the feeling that she was waiting for him to say something specific. He had no idea what it was.

"Uh..." he began again, feeling uncertain, "I suppose you're wondering why I called you down..."

"Some reason of your own, I assume," Luna demurred.

Harry began again bravely. "So I wanted to meet you because I just know we're going to be good friends!"

"Oh," Luna quirked her head. "Is that so? Friends? I had a friend once."

"…Good for you?"

"I thought so at the time." Luna smiled at him in her dreamy way. "When will we do this, then?"

"I thought," Harry struggled on, "that we could begin right now. Er," he looked at the blonde girl hopefully. "Would you like that?"

"Are you the type of friend who laughs at people when they're not with you?" Luna asked Harry curiously.

"No!" he gasped out, "No! I want to be the kind of friend who – er – gets to know you, and studies together, and shares interests?" He trailed off as he realised what some of Luna's greatest passions were. The little first year considered his words gravely for a few moments, before graciously nodding her head.

"Friends," she smiled. "I'd like that. I suppose we should start now then."

"Sure," said Harry.

They had another small silence while they each thought their own thoughts.

To Harry's surprise, Luna spoke first. "Do you have strong opinions on Bundimuns, by any chance?"

"No?" was Harry's honest reply. For the life of him, he couldn't quite remember what they were. Some kind of wizarding animal, he was sure.

"Oh," sighed Luna sadly, leaving Harry nursing a strange, guilty kind of feeling. "I thought it might explain them."

"Huh?"

"Your glasses," Luna looked up more cheerfully as Harry invested in the conversation. "They seem terribly old and neglected. I thought you could be trying to attract them."

Harry whipped them off his face and polished them half-hearted on his robes. "Not really, it's just I've always had them. I feel off a bit, when I think about getting new ones."

"I understand," Luna nodded. "My earrings are the same." Harry peered at the purple radish-like things that dangled by her neck. He remembered them clearly from his previous timeline. They looked just as ridiculous now as they had then. "They were my last present from my mother, you know."

"Ah."

"They give you wisdom, Daddy says."

"Well, I think that anything that makes you feel close to your mother would help you be" – he grasped for the word – "safe. They must be very precious." He remembered about her problems with missing belongings. "You will look after them, won't you? Did you want me to put a charm on them to keep them safe?"

"I'll manage." Luna smiled. "You're very kind, Harry Potter." Suddenly, she stood. "I'm going to go now and think about my mother for a while. Perhaps we will meet again."

"Okay," said Harry. "You can find me in the library, often, and at the Great Hall. And, of course I spend lots of time at the Quidditch pitch too. Come and say hi when you see me. Does that work for you?"

"The question should rather be, does that work for you, Harry Potter?" Luna returned. "I'll see you sometime." She turned and walked directly back towards the Tower stairs.

"I'll look for you, too," Harry called to her departing back, feeling somewhat confused. Perhaps he should wait a bit longer before he introduced the little girl to his rather more raucous Gryffindor companions, but he was hopeful that he had managed to develop the relationship before some of her more painful bullying experiences occurred.

All in all, not a bad start to the school year.

* * *

Entirely unsurprisingly, Gryffindor Quidditch practices began almost immediately, and Oliver Wood was pushing his team harder than usual to overcome their period of rest. Or so he said.

The Weasley twins, being more cynical than usual as a result of being thrust back into the strict routine of school, claimed that he was taking advantage of their settling-in period to brainwash the team into accepting harder practices.

But they joined in the practices anyway.

Harry became used to trudging back to the common room both shivering and damp.

Draco Malfoy once again wrangled his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team as seeker by way of a significant donation or seven, and when he had a chance Harry dropped him a quick challenge, muttering, "Congratulations, may the best man win" as they passed each other in a hallway shortly after the news had broken.

He walked away from Malfoy, leaving the blond standing in the dungeon hallway looking confused. Harry hoped that rather than worsen their relationship, the display of respect might improve it. At the very least, he hoped to keep Malfoy guessing about his real character.

Malfoy, whatever he thought about Harry, continued to keep his distance and watch.

* * *

School continued unremarkably for some weeks with only a couple of exceptions. The stairs seemed to be teasing him, Hermione complained with a frown.

"When we walk to class with you, Harry, we're almost late every time."

It was true.

He even got shut out of McGonagall's class once, and he thought she'd locked the door on the late-comers. Surprisingly, she'd opened the door from the inside and claimed it hadn't been locked. Harry eyed Seamus and Dean with suspicion all day, but they never admitted anything.

A tapestry in the great hall almost squashed him once too, and only Harry's great Seeker skills – and his survival skills, polished to perfection after all these years – saved him. Poor Neville got crushed instead, and had to have three bones and a concussion fixed overnight by Madam Pomfrey.

So other than the occasional excitement, Harry focussed most keenly on his own, private studies. He spent long hours in the library with Hermione, and Ron and Neville joined them on occasion. Luna never joined them, and Harry could not quite convince himself to bother her at the Tower again. If she wanted him, she would come to look for him, surely?

He completed his regular homework to the same standard as last year, finding new meaning in searching for the practical application in each topic he covered. The appendices help greatly in this endeavour. Occasionally, this caused him to get greatly off topic.

Hermione's homework was therefore of consistently higher quality than Harry's, and she was left baffled as to why his practical achievements and test results were unfailingly better than hers.

She battled on in a one-sided competition with good grace. True to her words the year prior, Hermione enjoyed the challenge of working with someone more accomplished than she, and they studied beside each other in good company.

In fact, the year continued with such peace and lack of drama that Harry found his sense of urgency slowly dwindling. The regular rhythms of each day and the slow march of the seasons drew Harry into a sense of security.

"Luna!" he finally exclaimed one Wednesday afternoon as Charm class was packing up. "Hermione, have you seen Luna around since I finally met her?"

Hermione stacked the last of her stationery back into her bag and looked up. "Who, Harry? I don't think I've met her."

"…Right." Harry still wasn't used to his best friends not knowing each other. The Ministry Six, for Merlin's sake, weren't even all on speaking terms! "Ron?" Harry tried.

"Yeah?" Ron swung his own satchel up off the floor.

"Have you seen Luna around recently? She hasn't come to say hi."

Ron looked at Harry blankly for a moment before his face scrunched up in thought. "Luna? Luna…like, Lovegood? Ginny's little buddy?"

"Yes!"

"Harry, I didn't know you knew her! Where did you meet?"

Harry felt the new story and the original story warring within him, and resolved his difficulty by ignoring the question. "Yeah…I haven't seen her around for a while and we were going to meet up. Do you know where she spends time these days?"

"Nope," Ron admittedly easily. "Haven't actually spoken to her since Ginny's tenth birthday, I don't think. She'll be in Hogwarts too, now you mention it! I wonder what House she's in?"

"Thanks." Harry scratched the back of his neck. "I'll go check up on her."

But when he eventually made his way to the bottom of Ravenclaw toward, another first-year student told him she wasn't in.

"Do you know where she might be?"

"She likes…animals?" the first year told Harry with a strange laugh and side-ways look. "Hey, can I have your autograph?"

Harry took the quill and parchment and signed absently while he pondered. Animals. As a first-year student, she might not even know about the thestrals yet, but…

"Hagrid!" Harry exclaimed, and dashed off.

* * *

To Harry's dismay, Hagrid told him that he'd never met any such student, but perhaps he might try the Kettleburn Club instead, "if she likes animals, like ye say."

"What?" Harry asked. He was pretty sure he knew Hogwarts pretty well now, being in his eighth year here, give or take, but… "Kettleburn Club? What's that?"

"One o' Hogwarts' social clubs," Hagrid told him with a broad smile on his scraggly face. "The bes' one, I reckon. 'S run by a good friend o' mine, Silvanus Kettleburn. E's the Care of Magical Creatures perfessor. Don' you know 'im?"

Harry had forgotten that there had been a Care of Magical Creatures class before Hagrid had been hired.

He followed Hagrid's instructions curiously, wandering westward around the castle, past Greenhouses One and Two. Towards the back of the castle, he came across a curious sight that he had never before paid attention to.

On the sunny slope away from the castle, all sorts of little buildings were dotted around the grass looking somewhat like a ring of mushrooms; one or two were close enough to stand heavily in the castle's shadow. From a distance, all Harry could tell was that they looked sort of like Hagrid's house: all wood and stone, squat and oddly shaped. As he drew closer, he saw there were dozens of figures scurrying around through the doors.

Closer still, Harry could identify a number of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff upperclassmen, although he didn't know any by name. A couple of Gryffindors and Slytherins were mixed in with the crowd, and they were doing a lot of carrying, lifting, and some minor spellwork by the looks of things. All students looked young to him these days - just teens, no war experience, barely any pain or hardship - but he thought these might be bigger than most, and were probably in their final few years at Hogwarts.

In the middle of the chaos, a stationary figure was conducting the chaos with grand arm-sweeps and the occasional bellow, and for want of any better destination, Harry found himself coming to a stop next to the man who had to be Silvanus Kettleburn.

The teacher in charge, Harry realised, turned out to be a figure more astonishing to the eyes than Mad-Eye himself. Harry found himself taking an inventory of the man's incredible first impression.

He was full of energy, was Harry's first observation, despite a litany of scars and wounds, all of them old.

The middle-aged wizard must once have had a magnificent mane of auburn hair, but now most of the left side was missing. In its place was a terrible burn wound that ran from the back of his head and over, around to the left side of Kettleburn's face. Instead of his hair, the glossy pink skin was puckered and creased where knots of scar tissue had formed. Patchy tufts of auburn hair fuzzed stubbornly around the man's left ear at the edge of the wound.

Although the pirate-like patch over his right eye was noticeable enough – possibly from some other injury, Harry guessed, due to the lack of burn on that side – Kettleburn's left eye was half swollen shut and puffy. It looked embarrassingly naked and intimate without any eyelashes or eyebrows. Presumably, they had been burned off in the same accident as his hair.

"Dragon flame," the man muttered as he saw Harry stop and stare beside him. "Hotter'n hellfire and just as impossible to cure. Who're you, then?"

Harry flushed with embarrassment. He of all people should know better than to stare at scars. "Harry Potter, Professor."

Then despite himself, he continued to take note of Kettleburn's wounds. The right arm he gestured with was stocky and muscular. Tiny scars littered the freckled skin that Harry could see on his hand and forearm, and an awesome welt on the back of his hand had healed into a snake-like ridge where something-or-rather had scratched him deeply. He held a dark wand masterfully in his fingers and little spells shot out the tip as Harry watched in fascination.

The teacher's other arm gesticulated wildly, which was why it took Harry a beat or two to realise that the whole forearm and hand was missing, replaced instead by a weird assemblage of hooks and…wrenches?

From Kettleburn's left hip down, an empty trouser leg flapped, from which a skinny wooden peg emerged; it drew Harry's attention to the wizard's other thigh. His left leg also ended above the knee and was replaced by an excellent wooden carving of a calf and a single leather boot.

The wizard bellowed some more instructions to the flurry of students dashing in and out of the buildings and then turned to peer at Harry blearily out of his single, swollen eye.

"Potter, you say?" He grunted. "From that unpleasant business a few years back, eh?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

"Heard you're well nigh indestructible," the man continued in his raspy voice. "Took a Killing Curse to the head, they tell me. How do you think you'd fare against dragon flame?"

"…I couldn't really say," said Harry, bemused.

The man continued to eye Harry with interest. "Nundu breath? Fwooper calls? Know any good spells?"

Harry struggled to enquire about Luna's presence in the club, "I…I'm not bad with spell work, I don't think."

"You're on the scrawny side," Kettleburn scrunched his face up into a weird grimace that Harry realised was probably a thoughtful frown, "but you've got yourself a history of survivability, so I'll try you over by the fire pit for now. See how you go against salamanders. A bit of a challenge never hurt anyone, eh?"

He pointed to a nearby hut and went back to bellowing at the other students, most of whom were N.E.W.T. level, leaving Harry to incredulously walk over to the building indicated. No wonder the man was good friends with Hagrid.

The problem was though, he'd come here for Luna. Harry spared a distracted glance around him and meandered through the door. It wouldn't hurt to find somewhere to settle down and wait, after all. A light scent of chilli pepper and burnt dust hit him as he walked in and Harry felt his eyes water as he paused to a moment to acclimatise.

Somewhat to Harry's surprise, he wasn't immediately made welcome.

"What're you doing here, pipsqueak?" An older boy with brown hair asked impatiently as Harry paused to blink his eyes. "You're too young for the salamanders." He flapped his hands at Harry rudely. "Go on and bugger off. Get outta here."

"Pritchard, he's just a kid," someone defended. Then a Ravenclaw boy came out of the gloom and eyed Harry up and down. "Are you lost, kid? Where are you supposed to be?"

"Fire pit," Harry shrugged. "The professor sent me here."

The first boy snorted. "Pull the other one. All the squirts say that. You think you're special, do you?"

"..."

"Hang on," said the kinder Ravenclaw, but then a hand rudely reached out and pushed Harry suddenly out the door again. "Get lost."

Harry felt a rush of pure fury flush through him and almost reached for his wand. He'd fought Voldemort face-to-face, Merlin be damned, and even though Hogwarts might not have believed him before... Then he remembered that he was stuck in a twelve-year-old body right now and the battle at the Ministry hadn't happened yet. He could...he could be patient.

To his astonishment, the impatient boy had followed him out the door and shouted in Professor Kettleburn's direction with an undeniably familiar tone of voice. It was the exact nasal whine of Dudley when he was about to tell on Harry to Aunt Petunia.

"Professor," the kid whined. "We've got a midget trying to get in the fire pit!"

The professor bellowed back. "Get kitted up and put yourself to work, Potter! What are you waiting for? A written invitation!?"

Harry turned back to the student with what might have been a rather smug expression. "Do you mind? You're blocking the door." He stepped past the stunned upperclassman and back into the room. He tried to ignore the rather shocked mumblings of, "Potter, did he say?" "Trust the Boy-Who-Lived to get special treatment", and "Did you see the scar?" that erupted as he did so.

Back inside the room, a few older students, though looking harried themselves, barked out some useful if sceptical advice.

"You know the _flame freezing charm?_"

"Did you bring your dragon-hide gloves? Ugh…borrow these for now. They'll be a bit big."

"They like eating pepper, but only give them small coals for now, and don't let them get bossy."

"If you see any looking purple-ish, call me over. We use chilli for scale-rot." Harry paused for a moment to stare at the very attractive Asian girl in Hufflepuff colours who was genuinely offering her support. Her golden skin tone shimmered attractively in the firelight of the room, and her shoulder-length, silky black hair was stunningly decorated with two bright purple streaks that framed her face. For some reason, she reminded Harry a bit of Tonks. He blinked and refocused.

Harry was quite lucky that he was not the second-year student he looked like when the names of advanced spells were called out to him hurriedly.

"Right. Got it. Yup," he accepted the pile of equipment thrust upon him. "Thanks."

As the senior students rushed off, Harry made his way further into the room and spotted a small wooden stool by the innermost window. Organising himself carefully, he watched the others around him reaching in and around the fire pit dug down into the stone floor. A large pile of hot coal, glowing a soft orange, sat on a grid above the fallen ash, and black rocks ringed the circle of heat. Presumably they acted as a fire break of some kind. In and around the glowing coals and hot ash, little lizard-shaped creatures scuttled. Harry looked at it all carefully before putting the gloves on and reaching straight into the heat.

"Not bad, for a start," the Hufflepuff girl nodded approvingly. "Better than some of the O.W.L students we see around here."

He picked up his first salamander and held it firmly in his left hand while his right dug into the nearby bucket of unlit coal.

"Here you go, little guy," Harry murmured. The jewel-bright eyes of the salamander eyed him back before its tongue reached out to lick the tiny lump of coal curiously. Suspicions assuaged, its mouth widened and Harry watched it nibble of the coal nub with interest.

Although the windows were small and the sunshine could barely enter, the room itself was warm and bright with the flickering light of the banked fire and the luminous bodies of the salamanders themselves. Harry tugged open the collar of his robe and settled into his task. His spot was perfect for Luna-spotting, if she was here.

As he settled into the routine of feeding the tiny, hot creatures, Harry kept a wary eye out the window. Within fifteen minutes a solitary blonde figure trudged past his window, and Harry lit up as he beckoned her in. Pritchard and a friend might have mumbled something about a "crazy witch".

"Harry Potter?" Luna asked as her silhouette stepped through the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Harry smiled and handed over the gloves. "Friends with shared interests, remember? Want to have a go at this? I'll teach you."

"I wasn't sure if you meant it," Luna explained. Her whole face lit up, before eying the senior students around him uncertainly. No friendly gazes met her back; the best Harry could see were the Hufflepuff and the friendly Ravenclaw boy looking exasperated and tired. "They don't let me do much around here," she worried. "They say I'm too...small."

"I'll help you out," Harry asserted, and gave up his seat to settle her down. He shot a glare Pritchard's way.

There were five older students in the room, and all of them eyed Harry suspiciously as he crouched by Luna's elbow. A couple of other students in the room sniggered and whispered together. Harry systematically ignored them. Eventually, one moved quietly around to lean down at Harry's workspace.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" the kind Ravenclaw asked sceptically, his quiet voice reaching Harry's ear in little puffs of air. "Pritchard's ...got character, but he wasn't actually wrong. We normally only see fifth years and up around here. We're almost exclusively N.E.W.T students getting practical experience, with a few fifth years thrown in."

"…But what about me?" Harry asked, astonished.

"A special case, apparently." The boy shrugged. Harry himself maintained a stoic face: he knew about special cases and the assumptions that came with them. "The professor must think you're capable to send you straight to the salamander room," the boy nodded at Luna, "which means you're technically allowed to supervise others. She's all yours, if you insist on keeping her."

Harry scowled to himself. "I'll keep her company then." He watched with brotherly concern as Luna explored the tiny creature in her hands and it nipped gently at her fingers. If this dismissiveness was how they were treating her before he arrived, he was very glad he came.

In the gently glowing fire pit, dozens of other white-hot salamanders scuttled about waiting to be fed. Luna was enchanted, and as Harry supervised her with surprising competency for a second-year-student, the others eventually got back to work.

The companionable peace didn't last for long.

From the direction of the fire pit, there came a burst of crackling pops and an audible roar of heat. Harry looked up to a flaming pillar of flame.

The comfortable glow of the Salamander room was replaced by a sudden, overwhelming heat. Where the gentle radiance of coal had been stood a burning wall of blue-ish flames.

Students around the room jumped backwards with startled exclamations and someone cast a what were presumably fire-management spells.

Then the fire began spitting, hot sparks and flickers of flame reaching beyond of the stone walls of the pit, tongues of flame snapping. Cries of pain and shock erupted as robes were singed and a few stray droppings of dried grass and mud on the floor caught alight and spluttered. A maelstrom of salamanders erupted from the rampant heat and scampered eagerly around the room.

"Stay calm," the kind Ravenclaw student, probably a seventh-year, cautioned over the whoosh of hungry flame, as someone else cried, "There's something wrong with the flame!" The seventh-year jerked his head and Pritchard's friend slipped out the door to fetch help. As he did, the loose salamanders made it to a shelf on the wall. A girl scuttled through the exit in alarm and dashed out. Pritchard followed, cursing, "Bloody Loony," as he did. The shelf crashed down on the floor in front of the door; everything on it caught fire.

Now two fires burned with a whoosh, leaving only Harry, Luna and two senior students trapped inside.

A jar of pepper on another shelf was pushed over with a crash, and chittering salamanders made for the sprawling mess. Tongues of small flame grew from the floor that they stepped on.

Even as Harry watched, the air in front of him began to shimmer with the haze of heat.

He spared an astonished glance at the two students who remained stuck in the building with him even as he fumbled for his wand.

"Wh-what happened?" the Hufflepuff girl asked, her face pale even through the red-hot glow of flames and the shimmering heat. "I was looking straight at it – where did the flames come from?"

The seventh-year boy snapped back. "Don't know, don't care. Got any plans?"

"Water?" she quavered.

"It'll kill the salamanders," the boy retorted, backing into a corner away from the flames, before continuing. "Uh…I don't know if we could if we wanted to. There's something odd about this."

"Do you think it _could_ be..."

"Not even Loon-, Lovegood could do this," the boy rolled his eyes. "Look at her, she's just a kid."

The Hufflepuff girl glanced over at Harry, who stood protectively in front of Luna. She visibly breathed in and then smiled, even as hair plastered to her forehead in the heat. "That's fair. Had to ask, sorry." She grinned a little at Luna, her expression strained. "You're alright; don't worry. Happens a lot around here." She forced a grin. "Know many spells yet? No? No need to worry, I've got you." She moved to stand between the fire and Harry's corner and Harry let her; even if she hadn't had the highest opinion of Luna, she had good intentions. Besides, she was just a kid herself. As she stood in front of him, Harry could see her wand-hand shaking.

Still perched on the stool, Luna's eyes were large.

His wand snapping up, Harry stopped thinking and descended into that calm state of mind he could access under extreme stress. He quietly cast a flame-freezing charm on himself and felt his muscles relax as the threatening heat was replaced with a numb kind of cool tickle.

He did the same to Luna, then the Hufflepuff, catching the girl in her unprotected back. "Thanks," he heard her murmur to the seventh year, mistaking the caster. Harry let the misunderstanding slide.

All four students watched in astonishment as the flames in the room grew bigger again, for no apparent reason that they could see. The Hufflepuff girl stamped sparks out as they inexplicably splattered her robe. The seventh-year coughed as he tried to cast a spell and inhaled black smoke.

Harry felt an acrid burn at the back of his throat and his eyes began to water again. Who stored chilli powder and peppercorns next to an actual fire pit anyway? Harry wanted to curse someone. Probably Kettleburn.

Snapping out his wand, he instead subtly repeated the same freezing charm on the seventh-year who hadn't managed to do it himself, then glanced around the room for ideas. Door blocked, fire pit raging with a pillar of flame, salamanders scattered…

The roof was beginning to smoulder, Harry noticed, and his lungs beginning to burn.

Outside, Harry thought he could hear panicked discussion of other senior students, but without coming inside they could only cast water onto the roof.

His eyes flickered.

Wasting a moment Harry cast a spell at the nearest window but it bounced off harmlessly.

"Unbreakable," the Hufflepuff girl explained with a cough. "Hang on…let me think."

The noise of the flames grew with the heat, and soon the voices outside were drowned out. Even through the flame-freezing charm, Harry began to feel himself sweat. Luna shakily stood up, wand arm out, and grasped his robe.

The salamanders were spreading the fire, Harry could see, as they scuttled all over the room. The stone floor developed black patches as fires burnt out on it, but a wooden strut by a wall began smoking.

Harry thought about blasting a hole in the wall, but the building didn't seem sound.

"Water _now_?" he dimly heard the Hufflepuff ask, but the seventh-year Ravenclaw shook his head frantically.

"NO," he called over the roar of the flames. "IT MIGHT SPREAD THE FLAMES. THIS ISN'T A NORMAL FIRE." He broke off coughing.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Then she spluttered too. The smoke was full of the bite of chilli and pepper, and the heavy black bitterness of cursed flame. Harry felt his ears pop from the pressure of the room changing.

Holding his own arm across his mouth, Harry cast a bubble-head charm on himself, and then the others in the room. He looked at the smoky roof and blackening walls.

"Impervius," he muttered. Hopefully the spell would work on fire as it did water, and keep the building impervious to damage. Meanwhile, he could stop the fire spreading.

Slowly at first, and then faster as he refined his technique, Harry began freezing the salamanders with the impediment jinx and throwing them back towards the firepit with a twitch of his wand.

The seventh-year mouthed something with raised eyebrows and joined in.

Harry asked the shivering Luna by his side, "DO YOU KNOW IT?"

He kept casting, pronouncing the syllables clearly and crisply shaping the wand movements as he went.

She looked sharply as he cast and began imitating quickly.

"GOOD JOB."

Soon all the small critters were back in the central fire pit, although they retained a manic energy, scuttling about within the flames and knocking coals over madly. The noise of the flame grew louder.

"Hold on," Harry muttered, and transfigured the rock wall around them higher, taller, more slippery. "That should keep them there."

He looked thoughtfully at the enchanted flame with its fury unabated. "I won't try to do anything to that thing though." Over the noise of the flame it was unlikely anyone could hear him, but he had everyone's attention now. The Hufflepuff girl stepped aside to watch him work, and the seventh year nodded approvingly.

"Muffliato," Harry cast around the fire pit, and the noise reduced suddenly. The heat, however, grew stronger. His spellwork wouldn't last long at that rate. Harry felt a droplet of sweat roll down his nose and drop onto his chin.

"We've stopped the fire spreading for now," he said to the others. "But I wouldn't touch that flame with a wizard's staff."

The older girl looked between Harry and the older boy. "Now what?"

Harry shrugged, then nodded urgently at the fire in the doorway. "That one's probably not enchanted. Can either of you transfigure flame?"

"No."

"Nuh-uh…Can you?" The Hufflepuff looked hopefully at Harry. "You're pretty impressive for a pipsqueak."

Harry only had the truth. "Sorry, elemental transfigurations are beyond me." He cocked his head and felt the sweat run faster down his forehead. "Apparition's out. Portkey, too. Uh…Fawkes?" A sudden surge of joy welled up in him as the thought occured.

"What?"

Brilliantly, Harry said it again, but _meant_ it this time. "Fawkes," he demanded, and the phoenix came in a rush of cool flame and a soaring song.

"Oh," he said, moderately unsurprised. "That's convenient."

The other students gaped. "That's the Headmaster's familiar!" the seventh-year exclaimed. "Did you call it to you? How did you know it would come? Look at its feathers!"

"_Not the time_," Harry bit out, and moved quickly. He grabbed Luna's hand and reached his other out to Fawkes. "Grab hold, guys."

While they made a small chain, Harry held his hand up to the flaming bird, which grabbed Harry's wrist in its claws. In a dizzying whirl of colours and song, the room seemed to spin.

Then Harry and the human chain were standing on the lawn outside the salamander room, the rest of the Kettleburn club staring at them in awe. They converged on the group with abandon. Harry tugged Luna to stand in front of him and scowled fiercely: he hadn't missed those few students who were staring at her with suspicion. They were at the mercy of the crowd, being tugged and pushed and patted down for injuries. Harry ignored the students.

Behind him, the sound of stone shattering sounded, and Harry knew his _muffliato_ had failed. Probably his transfigurations as well. Smoke escaping wildly from the eaves of the room behind him drifted over his head, low in the air.

But behind the crowd of onlookers, coming down the hill from the castle, Harry spotted Dumbledore striding magnificently towards the group, his orange and gold robes flapping impressively, his long beard streaming over his shoulder. A giant silver turtle patronus floated ahead of him, leading the way. Tension seemed to drain out of the students surrounding them, and Harry noted in amazement that belief in Dumbledore extended so far.

But Harry relaxed too, and realised he was still holding Luna's hand. He let go.

The air seemed suddenly cold and fresh on his skin. His eyes were watering madly, Harry noticed. They were positively streaming in the chilly breeze as his eyes madly cleansed themselves of chilli smoke. Harry suddenly realised that his robes were damp and heavy with sweat and he shivered.

With Dumbledore on the scene, Harry only had to stand back and watch as the chaos was resolved. Unsurprisingly, the enchanted fire was put out quite rapidly. The gawking students were sent away quick-smart, leaving only the most experienced of the Kettleburn Club to finish feeding the bestiary before they, too, were shuffled off.

Harry and his companions were, meanwhile, corralled by Professor Kettleburn and Sprout who quizzed them on events.

"The fire just grew up out of nowhere," the Hufflepuff, whose name turned out to be Sumire Tsukuba, explained earnestly. The seventh-year Ravenclaw, apparently a prefect called Thaddeus Thorpe, confirmed her statements.

"No one was casting spells; no one odd came in the room. Even L–," he barely stumbled, "Lovegood was part of the club – except Potter, of course. And it was lucky he was there because he was the one who got us out!"

Harry made his excuses and tried to shuffle the attention aside. Fortunately for him, both senior students seemed to think the other one had cast the bubble-heads and the flame-freezing charms. They were merely impressed with his transfiguration and impediment jinx.

"I only held on to the phoenix," he dismissed, and did his best to avoid too much praise. "Attempted a basic rock-to-block transformation. Lucky it worked. Do you know what happened to the fire?" he deflected quickly.

The teachers shook their heads. "We're looking into it, Potter," Professor Sprout said warmly, having rushed up from the greenhouses when smoke was spotted. "Headmaster Dumbledore has everything under control. Don't you worry."

"And twenty points to you all for remaining calm under pressure," Professor Kettleburn added. Then he continued. "You've all impressed me with your ability. Some survivability you've got there after all, eh Potter? Got cool heads under pressure, the lot of you. Would any of you be interested in helping a wizard out on a special project he's got coming up?" He leaned forward. "I'd hazard a guess you're wanting a bit of a break from _fire_ now, wouldn't you say?"

Magical creatures not _really_ being Harry's interest, he was about to decline before Luna's bight-lit eyes caught his attention. He remembered she didn't seem all that popular with the students. He paused. "Luna and I will come," he volunteered. "Just send us an owl."

The mystery now out of his hands, it was time to focus on making Luna's first year a happy one.

He saw her brilliant smile, and thought he'd done a good thing. Harry grinned too.


	11. Creature Comforts

Harry Potter jerked his attention away from his transfiguration textbook with a silent scowl. He usually didn't mind the solid, hard-wood seats of the Defence Against the Darks Arts classroom, or the constant but low-key shuffling of his classmates: everybody got a little restless while they were stuck sitting on such uncomfortable benches. Normally, he didn't even mind Hermione's sharp glances his way, or Ron's nudges whenever something ludicrous, or funny, or boring happened. In usual class time, Harry never even noticed the stale, somewhat rusty scent of Hogwarts' stone walls as he went about his daily life.

When he was in a bad mood, however, all these things and more seemed to grate upon his nerves.

His unimpressed stare met Hermione's, who completely missed his mood.

"Did you catch that?" she nudged him with her elbow again and murmured quietly as they sat in the back row of Defence. "He's just referred to the 1972 Legislation for the Protection of Herd-Oriented Species Laws."

Harry grunted and glanced her way briefly, before trying to relocate his place in the text.

"Professor Lockhart's the first teacher I've met," Hermione continued, "who seems to refer back to Ministry reform in his own career."

"Oh." Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Hermione's quill skimming across her parchment, line after line of impeccable notes appearing as if by magic.

She hissed at him under her breath. "Harry! I know you're self-studying, but you won't have this opportunity forever."

Steadfastly ignoring her, Harry twirled his own quill, instead carefully underlining a word in his textbook. _Anima_. The concept was probably more important than he had previously assumed. He'd successful skimmed over all his schoolwork up to sixth-year level, but forging ahead with seventh-year work – when he hadn't actually sat through any classes – was proving frustrating on his own. _Anima._ It hadn't mattered at all when transfiguring inanimate objects, and barely mattered for the basic animated ones: buttons to beetles and so on. Now, however, Harry was trying to transfigure complex animals himself and was beginning to realise something was missing. Something necessary for the expression of life.

The seemingly-pointless transfigurations of the early years of Hogwarts – mirror to magpie, arrow to sparrow, even _serpensortia_ – only brute-forced animate transfigurations, it turned out. That made an irritating amount of sense: over the years even Harry had realised that perfecting spellcasting progressed through a lack of precision and lots of wasted energy in the beginning. It was embarrassing to realise how long he'd taken before realising that first- and second-year students weren't really doing proper transfigurations. They just overpowered their spells.

Embarrassingly late though it was, Harry's deep relief at finally figuring it out now met with impatience. So much of the advanced theory now made more sense, but he'd wasted years of time! Surely his classmates had realised this simple truth when they went through Transfiguration lessons the first time!

No wonder Hermione got irritated with his lack of work ethic.

Unfortunately, now that Harry was attempting to teach himself advanced spellwork alone – N.E.W.T-level and everything – that realisation alone wasn't really helping him make the next step.

The thought brought Harry back to the concept of _anima_. It was somehow necessary to create living things, but couldn't actually create life, according to the fifth exemption to _Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration_. The process seemed to Harry to be rather contradictory.

It wasn't helping his mood any.

Harry raked his hands through his hair in frustration and tried to ignore Lockhart's attention-grabbing voice. It was ruining his focus.

"Harry!" Hermione whispered once more. "You're missing out!"

He shot her a dark look from over the top of his glasses. "I'm really not."

Having successfully distracted Harry from his rather difficult self-study, Hermione gave up on his attitude and settled back to take notes on Lockhart's latest display. Harry allowed himself a moment of indulgence, absently chewing the tip of his quill while the frustration swirled around him. He wasn't exactly bothering to keep track of the course content of Defence, but Lockhart seemed to be just as useless as Harry had remembered.

At the front of the room, the blond ponce was demonstrating the specific…grappling technique…he had used to subdue whatever it was in his adventure of the day. The man quirked an eyebrow roguishly while he made a few pointed remarks to his captive audience. Something about it "all being in the knees", Harry sceptically noticed.

Stiffening suddenly, Harry sat upright and slowly removed the quill feather from his mouth to fix his total attention on the so-called 'professor'. Breaking in a kelpie? Nobody rides kelpies, Harry thought with a sudden jolt of frustrated horror, ever. If they don't kill their victims, they drive them mad!

With a rush of adrenaline, Harry cracked his knuckles desperately and glanced around the room. To his dismay, although a number of his classmates – boys especially, he noticed – looked a little sceptical, none of them seems to display the appropriate level of outrage. Perhaps, Harry realised with a sudden little shiver, they didn't know how bad the advice truly was. Harry, of course, had a little more worldly knowledge, not the mention lots of experience in trying to stay alive. The practical advice that Lockhart was sharing was not only terribly misguided, but – to Harry's rising indignation - occasionally downright dangerous.

What was Dumbledore thinking, hiring this lunatic?

Harry glanced instantly at Hermione's earnestly furrowed brow and then Ron's significantly less impressed face. He shot a quick look to see Neville's expression of polite interest. Harry raked his eyes over his classmates: Lavender, Parvati, Seamus, Dean…the lot. By the time Lockhart moved on to demonstrating the – apparently – deciding factor in the confrontation, Harry felt a sick, heavy feeling of anger churning in his gut. Lockhart wasn't just inaccurate, he was inappropriately incorrect. If one of his students one day attempted to survive an attack the same way Lockhart promoted, they would die.

Harry continued to watch Lockhart's little demonstration with horrified eyes and that sick feeling in his stomach. Even the spells that did exist were modelled wrong: with unnecessary movements in the shoulders and wrist that could slow a spell down, cause it to miscast, backfire on the caster. Even if the spell worked in the first place, Lockhart's technique could kill someone.

Jaw tense, hands clenched in front of his mouth, Harry felt physically sick as the anger and frustration turned to fear and urgency. Hermione believed this rubbish! Neville didn't know any better! Ron, well, Ron didn't have any alternative to Lockhart now, did he? It might not seem important now, but in a couple of years Voldemort would return and dark creatures would be employed with enemy forces. Lockhart's teaching could kill them.

A hot, heavy pulse beat in Harry's temples and he felt his heart rate accelerate.

They were only children, he worried, gnawing on a knuckle. He scrunched his eyes up tight, brain racing. What to do?

"Hermione," Harry hissed urgently, leaning over to interrupt the rapid scratching of her quill. "Tell me: do you still cross-reference your self-study?"

"Of course." She seemed mildly insulted. "Is this relevant to class, Harry? I'm trying to listen."

"Right," Harry said. "Okay then." He smiled a thin, hard smile and took out a new piece of parchment. "I've got an idea I want to run by you. Can we talk after dinner?"

* * *

"What do you think of Lockhart?" Harry asked Luna, somewhat forcefully, as they walked down to the Kettleburn Club together after class. He tried to soften his tone, but the frustration really hadn't left him yet. It was getting a little colder in the late afternoon, and the sun was probably beginning to sink towards the horizon – although the heavily overcast skies prevented that from being obvious. To Harry's dismay, the weather wasn't helping his mood.

The small, slender girl gave him a queer kind of look before quirking her head and looking at something in the sky. "Professor Lockhart, you mean?"

"Yeah, him."

Luna floated along at his side like a skittish foal for a moment. "I think he's quite an education," she finally replied.

Harry's quick look at her caught her curious, nervous gaze, and he paused to rephrase his response. "…Is that the official Ravenclaw response?"

"Is there such a thing?" Luna skipped once before replying. Then she turned a quietly assessing gaze towards him. "…I don't really like him much."

"How come?"

"Daddy refuses to advertise his books," Luna answered vaguely. "He says his unsanctioned time-travel might cause dangerous paradoxes." She looked up at Harry's face warily.

"Time-travel," repeated Harry thoughtfully. "Right." He thought for a moment. "I also think Lockhart is quite dangerous, actually, so…I guess I agree with your dad then. Are you studying independently?"

Luna smiled brilliantly and seemed to relax. "There's a bunch of old textbooks from previous years in Ravenclaw Tower, and the senior students are selling copies of their old notes for small favours. Daddy thinks that's enough for this year."

As they reached the little buildings that housed the various creatures, their steps slowed and conversation stopped. Harry noticed that his palms had grown sweaty and some stray hairs had glued themselves to his forehead, damp with anticipation.

Rubbing his lower left forearm, Harry spared a moment to think of the challenges that the last month had brought. Professor Kettleburn had certainly lived up to his promise of giving the four students from the salamander incident a "bit of a break from fire". The scar on his arm had faded practically unnoticeable, although the phantom pain was still fresh in his memory. That first injury had come from Kettleburn's earthwyrms, burrowing creatures over six feet long that travelled underground through the enthusiastic use of gnashing teeth. That one had been okay overall: Harry had managed to knock the Ravenclaw prefect, Thorpe, out of the way before he got seriously injured. Harry's own arm had been healed up very nicely by Madam Pomfrey almost immediately.

The following week Harry had been introduced to _kamaitachi_, imported sickle weasels that could cut a wizard from over three feet away. Hogwarts hadn't actually owned them, but Kettleburn had connections with contacts who were willing to loan the creatures to N.E.W.T Creature classes for a week or so. That older Hufflepuff girl, Tsubaka, had been injured by those, losing a great swarth of fringe and almost an eye due to a moment's inattention.

Kettleburn had suggested Luna not bother coming back after that week, if she wasn't interested in "getting up close and personal". Tsubaka also dropped out of the 'special sessions', apparently not wanting to risk bodily harm in Kettleburn's footsteps. Only Thorpe and Harry had faced the ensuing two weeks of challenging beasts. For all of Kettleburn's faults, he had correctly identified Harry's ability to cope with dangerous situations; Harry found himself mildly enjoying the challenges despite himself.

In anticipation for the upcoming struggle and a chance to work through some of his frustration, Harry took a deep breath and huffed out slowly, feeling as he did so the tension in his shoulders ebbing. "Are you coming?" he asked curiously. It wasn't as if Kettleburn had _banned_ her, Harry thought. And she always had liked unusual creatures.

"Not today," Luna replied. "I thought I might try the bowtruckles instead."

Harry didn't understand why Luna would prefer bowtruckles to whatever recommendation Kettleburn would have for him today, but he thought she knew her own preferences best. Ruffling her hair in his best brotherly manner, Harry watched as Luna wandered a few steps towards off towards a distant hut, her cheerful, dancing footsteps clearly much happier than his own hurried, stomping ones.

He hoped he would get a good work out today; he had a lot of frustration to work through. Raising his head to scent the wind – environmental factors being surprisingly important when dealing with dangerous creatures, he had discovered – Harry found the wind slow and slight. A heavy moisture hung in the air, and streaks of low-lying cloud felt cool and wet against his face. The sullen weather seemed to match his mood. Huffing a little in irritation and anticipation, Harry checked his wand was within easy reach, just to prepare. The ground was damp and squelched under his shoes as Harry tramped over to Kettleburn, orchestrating his student volunteers with spells and shouts from the centre as always, and waited to retrieve his own instructions for the afternoon.

The professor was very keen to see Harry back and interested in dealing with more creatures.

"Good kid," he muttered, in between bellowing and waving his wand at the other students. "Good t'see yeh've got nerves o'steel. These young'uns these days, they've got no sense of adventure."

Harry raised his eyebrows politely.

"Yeh've shown yerself to be pretty good under pressure, kid," the man continued, "so I've got a special job fer you today. Yeh've got a good head on yer shoulders, aye? Waddya say?"

Fingers tingling and hoping for some action, Harry nodded cautiously.

That may have been a mistake. Shortly thereafter, Harry found himself clumping alongside the edge of the Great Lake alone, although Professor Kettleburn's gravelly voice was muttering in a low rumble from the huge Patronus turtle that floated just before him. One large oak goblet was clutched awkwardly in Harry's left hand.

"Keen boy," Harry heard the professor's voice mumble. "Not too shabby, are ya, Potter? Unlike some o' these kids, no sense of adventure to speak of." Harry regretted the fact that the Ravenclaw, Thorpe, must have opted out of these special sessions too, leaving Harry as the only one receiving Kettleburn's special care. He wondered what excuses Thorpe had made, to have the professor so deeply disappointed in his 'lack o' mettle'.

He stumbled along in the long, damp grass, and followed the turtle away from the castle and down towards an isolated corner of the lake. His shoes were soon damp from the dew on the grass, and his thighs were soon burning from wading through the resisting grass, and Harry still wasn't quite sure where they were heading.

Despite the exercise, Harry found his mood worsening: he had hoped for a wrestle or fight, some need for explosive power and action against some wild creature. Instead, he found himself stumbling over hidden potholes in the ground, his feet growing cold as the wet travelled through his shoe leather.

However, as he wrestled with himself to control his emotions and settle himself down, it was fascinating to Harry to realise that he was exploring a corner of the Black Lake where students almost never came. Students often spent time near the hidden boat shed, by the shallow beach areas near where the Triwizard stands had been set up for the third task, but Harry found himself following the turtle around the lake in the opposite direction. The huge trees from the forbidden forest grew closer and closer to the water, and behind the muttering of Kettleburn's voice from the turtle, forest noises whispered in Harry's ears. Heavy shadows began to loom over Harry, and soon he found himself clambering over fallen trunks, half-submerged in the lake shallows, or jumping small inlets where the lake broke its banks. Harry felts his bad mood disappear as his need for focus grew.

Nobody, probably not even Dumbledore, knew everything that lived in the Black Lake, or in the Forbidden Forest. Harry realised that he couldn't go much further along the shoreline without entering either the Forest or the lake itself. His tension rose.

Shortly thereafter, he found himself standing on some marshy ground, shoes and socks off, his bare toes sinking slightly in the cold and mossy wetland. Kettleburn's Patronus hovered supportively just to Harry's left, muttering encouragement and instructions out in Kettleburn's rough voice.

"Keep yer mind sharp, Potter!" he reminded, as Harry hiked up his robes and stepped awkwardly into the ankle-deep water. "Keep sight of the shore – don't get too caught up in yer task!"

"Yes, sir!" Harry replied, noticing as he did so that visibility was low due to the shadow of the forest and the surprisingly heavy mist that lingered in its shade.

"Don' use yer wand except in exceptional circumstances!" Kettleburn's voice continued from the bank. "They've gotta be magically inert to be useful, so don't waste them unless yer in danger yerself! Don' go deeper than knee-high in water! Don' follow the lights, you hear me, Potter? Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you follow the lights!"

Feeling the icy cold rise up through his legs and settle deep into his bones, Harry waved one arm over his head to show he had heard, and then refocused on the marshy swamp he was wading through.

The light and warmth from the bank seemed to fade, and Harry assumed that Kettleburn's Patronus had faded, or left to return to Kettleburn himself. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not, to be left so alone in a complicated task in a dangerous corner of the Black Lake. His sudden isolation left Harry feeling rather exposed to the beings in the Forest, and he loathed to turn his back on the shoreline. Slowly, cautiously, he side-stepped out into the lake inlet, passing the occasional submerged shrub or fallen log as he did so.

He felt, as he waded through the chilly water, as though he was alone in the world: as alone as he was in his cupboard under the stairs, but this time the world was large and wide and overpowering. Little noises caught his attention: some frogs of some sort croaking near the bank, the buzz of small insects from all around him – too small to be seen, the small splashes and squelches he made himself, treading slowly but surely away from the shore.

His breathing slowed; less the frustrated huffing of earlier, and more of a watchful silence as Harry sank into the landscape around him.

Deciding he had walked far enough, Harry stopped walking and looked up, distantly making out through the grey mist the indistinct shape of the shoreline, a few low shrubs leaning into the water. Sparse rushes – or reeds, he didn't know the difference – rattled in the soft wind, and Harry shuffled sideways to the nearest clump and bent low, looking for the eggs he'd been tasked to find. He stifled a curse as the hem of his robes dropped into the water, and hiked them up higher: mind alert, Seeker eyes bright despite the bone-deep chill.

A single will-o'-the-wisp popped up, just in the corner of his eye and beckoned softly, warmly, welcoming. The small warm flame flicked gently like a hearth-fire, and Harry felt a momentary impulse to wade a little further towards it. Perhaps if he was closer, he'd be warmer.

Then he stopped.

Focus, Harry, he thought. Don't let it tempt you.

He again set his eyes to search for small, dark clusters of spots around the stem of the reeds. His hands, Harry noted absently, were shaking a little in the cold, and his breath was puffing ever-so-slightly white in the chill air. He found himself thinking longingly of the Gryffindor fire, with its crackling cheerfulness, and the raucous noise of the common room.

Another small, dancing flame popped up within his sight and drifted gently towards Harry with determined cheerfulness. There was a nice reed cluster a little further away from the shoreline, close to the will-o'-the-wisp, and as Harry carefully splashed his way closer, he could swear that side of his body warmed up ever so slightly.

Absent-mindedly, as Harry bent over the dark water to search for those rare little spots, he found himself orientating his body to gather the warmth. His feet were soon freezing, his fingernails beginning to turn blue, but Harry felt that the shoulder closest to the floating light was moderately comfortable. He continued to search the reed clusters that took him towards that warmth, slowly, carefully.

He felt calm and peaceful, despite the cold. It was easy to ignore the ache in his back, from all the bending down and searching, and the pain in his legs soon went numb with the cold. Searching for the small eggs that clustered just below the water line against the body of the reeds was very much like hovering his broomstick above the Quidditch game while searching for the snitch.

That was what saved him, in the end. That familiarity with keeping many things in mind, and the careful calm and focus on the Occlumency trance that Harry had been working on since his return to first-year. Harry stood, thigh-deep in water, a number of dancing flames nearby luring him with their warmth, and he realised with a jolt that he could no longer see the shoreline through the mist.

Harry spared a cautious glance at the will-o'-the-wisps before carefully stepping away from them, still bending over to search the reeds. Were they creatures, in the truest sense of the word? Were they, for want of a better word, _hunting_ him by luring him deeper into the lake? They hovered, promising warmth and light, just in the corner of the eye, Harry quickly realised, and they attempted to lull you into a sleepy kind of daze. In such a state, Harry had quickly realised, a witch or wizard would be lured into deeper water – possibly close to the grindylow hunting grounds, where they might be killed and thus nourish the ecosystem. He certainly hadn't intended to walk into the lake any deeper than calf-high.

He didn't know what kind of creature will-o'-the-wisps were, but they were obviously some kind of magical being. They had wills, they had instincts, patterns of behaviour…What were they, beyond the flame and gentle smoke? Did they have bodies? Were they elemental in nature?

He wondered what they ate.

He continued searching the reeds and filling up his goblet without changing his expression, just in case the wisps could sense his wariness. Slowly, slowly, Harry splashed his way towards the shallows. He couldn't see the shoreline or forest due to the heavy cloud or mist, but he could see where the reeds grew thicker, and a shadow that might have been a fallen tree still living while it struggled in the water.

He didn't feel cold at all now, Harry realised, as he moved gently away from the winking lights. Adrenaline will do that to you, he realised, and breathed out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when the distant silhouette of the forest came into view.

Twenty minutes later, Harry's feet were pale and splotchy with cold, the hairs on his body stood up in protest with his goosebumps, and Harry had half a gobletful of what looked like glossy, blue fish eggs. As he made his way back to shore, breath whistling through blue lips, Harry reflected that will-o'-the-wisps were more insidious than the redcap goblins of last week.

Even with his sense of danger and ability to focus, he'd lost a sense of time and place while they teased him just out of reach. Harry felt a shiver ripple down his spine as the danger hit too close to home. He'd have to keep Luna away from here, he decided. All his friends, but particular the curious little creature-lover.

As his slow, unsteady footsteps reached the edge of the water and he took those first painful steps on solid ground again – the small sticks and growing things poking at his pins and needles – the thought occurred to Harry that will-o'-the-wisps might be most dangerous to people who were already tired from hunting, or from being lost. Perhaps they worked better on wizards without Occlumency, too, he pondered, carefully setting the wooden goblet down to dry off his feet with part of his robe. They would certainly be more threatening to wizards with fewer life-threatening experiences than he had faced. As his shaky hands manoeuvred his socks onto literally numb feet, Harry wished again that the nature of his task didn't forbid him to use magic. One quick _scourgify_ and a warming charm, and he would be good to go.

He stumbled quite miserably back to the Kettleburn club to find the crowd of students as energetic as always, and Kettleburn himself conducting the chaos with his usual vigour.

"Fine lad," the professor had complimented when Harry had passed over the cup and its precious contents. "Severus's N.E.W.T class will be quite delighted to have these. I'll pass news of your contribution on."

Harry grimaced. He bore patiently with Kettleburn's complements and off-hand comments, and eventually, the precious cup was passed to another student to take up to the castle and Harry could use magic on himself once again.

The drying charm worked fine of his clothes, but Harry still felt the bone-deep chill of the lake in his body despite the warming spell. Having put himself to rights, Harry nodded farewell to the fiercely energetic teacher and walked quickly over to the bowtruckle thicket in order to find Luna. He hoped he would feel warm again soon.

She wasn't there.

In the shade of the gentle saplings, a number of unfamiliar students were gently tending to the tiny beings with soft voices and gentle hands. Despite their care for the bowtruckles, the students themselves stared somewhat intensely at Harry as he wandered through. Some seemed curious, some welcoming and a strange number curiously unfriendly, until Harry spotted an older boy who had been in the salamander hut that day it erupted. Something Pritchard, Harry remembered his name was. Quite a memorable character. Apparently, in light of the earlier chaos, the boy was avoiding the hut for a while. His decision was completely understandable.

Pritchard was staring at Harry confrontationally, but after years of Malfoy and Voldemort, the threat didn't really register with Harry's conscious mind. He went straight up to the boy unhesitatingly. "Did Luna come this way?"

"Looney?" Pritchard rolled his eyes and _tisked_. "Not for long, and good riddance to her, too."

Harry's eyebrows rose sceptically. "That was a bit rude." He found himself falling back on his experience as quidditch captain, when he'd mentored the younger players. "I don't need you to like her, but I know that you're capable of being polite about it. There's no need for unnecessary insults." He relaxed his shoulders and tried to seem non-confrontational. "Did you see where she went?"

The boy stared at Harry blankly for a moment, before he scowled and turned away. "The further away from here, the better."

Harry huffed, exasperatedly, and gazed at Pritchard's back in disappointment. He must be at least O.W.L level, at his height, and really should know better. Hermione would have known what to say.

Then Harry realised that Hermione might not be very compassionate to bullies, and wondered what Percy would say instead.

At that moment, another student spoke up, defensively but sure. "We don't need her sort around here."

Harry spun around to face the Slytherin, who looked awkward at being singled out. Then he rallied and stood firm, gesturing to a few of his friends, who walked over to stand with him in agreement.

Harry didn't get it. "What do you mean?"

The boy shrugged. "Granted the thing with the salamanders may have been an accident, maybe some kind of spontaneous combustion, but you have to admit that her presence there was suspicious."

Harry's mouth dropped open.

"She's cracked, of course," the student continued. "You can't trust the crazies." To Harry's astonishment, a couple of the boy's friends – some even in Ravenclaw colours – were nodding. One of them had a bowtruckle sitting on his shoulder, which made Harry feel strangely betrayed on Luna's behalf.

"What –"

"My advice to you would be to keep your distance."

A kind-looking Slytherin girl shouldered forward and smiled awkwardly. "Look, kid. You know her father runs that awful paper, you know? They ran a very detailed article about the salamander thing the day after it happened."

Harry was startled, and she looked at him kindly and pityingly.

"It was, 'Boy-Who-Lived Reborn from Fire,' I think," she shared. "Sold suspiciously well, my uncle told me."

The first boy nodded rapidly and shrugged once more. "There's a reason why she has no friends, Potter."

"She's got a friend!" Harry retorted angrily. "_I'm_ her friend, and if you can't tell why, well then, that's your own loss." That familiar fire began churning in his gut. It seemed a long time ago that he'd been feeling cold.

He stalked out of the thicket furiously and marched into the next closest building without really considering where he was going.

"Uh, sorry," Harry stuttered to a stop when all the students froze to look up at him, his angry steps easily gaining everyone's attention. "Is Luna around?" He paused to look at the building he had walked into.

"Look, Potter," one of the older students began awkwardly. "Loo-Lovegood…she's not really welcome around here." He gestured around the brightly lit room, and Harry realised that he had disturbed the whole fairy enclosure with his dramatic entrance. "It's nothing very personal," the boy began when Harry was about to protest. "She gets a bit absent-minded and the fairies play tricks on her."

Still fuming, Harry settled down enough to glance around the room. No one else said anything, but their unspeaking silence spoke volumes.

"Do you know where she might be?" Harry finally spoke up, hiding his resentfulness as best he could.

The same student shrugged. "You might try the unicorn herd. They don't accept just anyone, but Loony's just different enough they quite like her, for some odd reason."

"Thanks," Harry spoke shortly, and left without looking back.

Having had no luck with the unicorn herd, Harry then bumped into Tsubaka, the friendly Hufflepuff girl from the salamander incident. She was flatteringly friendly when she spotted Harry and took him to one side to make sure life was going well before realising he was on a mission.

"Lovegood?" the girl asked thoughtfully, after Harry had explained his quest. "She's usually alone around here," she explained, and Harry wondered how he had missed that. "Have you tried the unicorns?"

Harry told her he had.

"Perhaps the Abraxans or thestrals then?" Tsubaka suggested. "No one really spends too much time around them, and Lovegood seems to like the quiet."

The Abraxans were a failure, but in the middle of an isolated little clearing near the forest Harry found Luna with the thestrals, and an empty bucket streaked with blood.

"Luna!" Harry called, a jogged over the glade to be nearer. "Glad I found you! How did the bowtruckles treat you?"

Luna looked up at Harry, for some reason looking rather startled, before she smiled her familiar slow and gentle smile. "Harry Potter." She turned back to scratch the closest thestral behind the ears and spoke gently. Unfortunately, Harry couldn't hear what she said.

"What was that?"

Luna looked up at him. "The bowtruckles were lovely." Luna blinked. "What brings you here, Harry Potter?"

"Well," Harry cocked his head. "I was looking for you."

Luna smiled as she fed the last piece of raw steak to a tall thestral, probably a stallion. "Oh? Is that so." She scratched the thestral's boney forehead and then turned to look at Harry. "Why?"

"…Because we're friends?"

For some reason, Luna seemed to relax at that.

"Are you done here?" Harry asked after a moment, and then bent to pick up the bucket for Luna when she nodded yes. "Shall we walk back to the castle together?"

Harry cast another Warming Spell on himself as they strode back towards Kettleburn's chaos, and they walked in silence together up the hill towards the castle.

"Luna," Harry began, awkwardly. "Luna, are you happy in the Kettleburn Club?" He scratched the back on his neck awkwardly. "Are…are people nice to you here?"

"You're here, Harry." Luna shrugged. "The animals are lovely."

Harry stopped walking, even though he was really desperate to get back to the castle and have a warm bath. He caught Luna by the elbow and turned her to face him. "Luna," Harry said seriously. "We can find you another club, if you want."

She looked down at the ground and fiddled with her wand. "The animals truly are lovely, Harry Potter."

"Hey," Harry gentled. "You don't have to be part of the club to spend time with the unicorns or thestrals, you know. We can find you something better."

"Professor Kettleburn has been very kind to me."

"I'll come with you," Harry promised. "There's no point me staying in a club that you're not enjoying."

Luna looked at him with wide eyes, startled.

"We're friends, right?" Harry tried a small grin. "Just call me Harry, okay?"

"Friends," Luna repeated quietly. "Harry. Okay then, if you're sure."

* * *

Harry was still pondering about Luna's strange attitude when he was seated in the Gryffindor common room later that evening, Hermione, Ron and Neville looking at him curiously.

"I thought we could do some independent research," Harry started cheerfully, "and compare Professor Lockhart's incredible achievements with the historical record of spell development across disciplines."

Ron didn't look very impressed, but Hermione seemed intrigued.

"You mean to compare Professor Lockhart's spell developments with their originals?" Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright.

"…sure," Harry said. "I know you've taken extensive notes on his spell techniques," he nodded at Hermione, "and Ron and Neville could do with cross-referencing his own books with the theory in others." He raised an eyebrow significantly in Ron's direction.

"Lockhart?" Ron's eyebrows rose sceptically. "Really?"

Harry shuffled forward in his seat and nodded enthusiastically. This would clear up the Lockhart problem without relying on the so-called 'curse', and he really assumed that Ron would be very excited about it once he twigged.

"I thought we could start this as a…group project," Harry sat back. "Surprise Lo- the professor at the end of the school year with a compendium of all his successes in some kind of master index. Perhaps we could present it for publishing," Harry added, in a moment of inspiration.

Hermione practically rubbed her hands with glee. "That sounds fantastic, Harry," she smiled.

Neville eyed Harry curiously, before cautiously nodding. "I'm in, I guess, if you need me."

The three of them looked cheerfully at Ron, who glowered a little under the pressure. "Look, that's not really my thing," he protested. "I mean, how much time will this take us, exactly?"

Harry pursed his lips. "Quite a lot, I should think. But," he spared a glance at Hermione, positively vibrating with enthusiasm, "I think you'll find it quite satisfying."

Ron looked at him sceptically.

"Really," Harry emphasised.

His friend rolled his eyes. "Look, you already keep yourself so busy the quidditch practice and your weird club thing, and all that study you do. I just don't see this little project has anything in it for me."

"At least think about it?" Harry asked hopefully, and that was the best he could manage that night. Hermione and Neville, meanwhile, had already planned to meet in the library every evening after dinner.

"I hope you know what you're doing, mate," Neville muttered as the informal meeting broke up. Harry hoped he did too. He supposed he was off to a good start.


	12. The Barrier Breaks

Autumn pressed on, developing with it cooler weather and a damp chill in the air. A familiar rash of cold and flu symptoms spread through the castle, and many students attended classes still smoking at the ears from the effects of Madam Pomfrey's Pepper Up.

Harry himself rather enjoyed the effects of Pepper Up while he was stuck in early morning Quidditch practices, and thanked the twins heartily for their somewhat suspicious supply. Surely Madam Pomfrey was not a willing supplier for the entire Gryffindor quidditch team.

On the one hand, Harry didn't want to look too hard at the very convenient gift. In addition to curing sort throats and scaring off fevers, the handy little potion warmed the body up from the inside out and gave its taker energy – it was just right for a six o'clock morning practice in a Scottish autumn. Only Oliver Wood, to Harry's sceptical surprise, resisted the smoking little phials. Something about 'toughening up', or some such nonsense.

On the other, it did remind Harry somewhat of days being stuck in the Hospital Wing due to injury or incapacitation. Harry wasn't sure he liked the connotations, but the contraband potion did help him get out of bed in the mornings.

When not in Quidditch practise or continuing his own in-depth study, Harry joined his little band of friends in the library, where they were making good headway into fact-checking Lockhart's claim to fame. Hermione hadn't quite worked out what Harry's task was leading to, but had organised the little group with great finesse – writing up the cross-referencing parchments and heading up the note-taking template with apparent ease. Harry rather thought his own note-taking was actually a little more effective, as developed as it had now become, but who was he to get in Hermione's way? Harry rather enjoyed the feeling of leaving Hermione in charge of the research and just doing what he was told: it felt nostalgic.

Neville, meanwhile, had clicked quite quickly into what the actual purpose of the task was, to Harry's relief, and had thrown himself into the research with surprising fervour. It was a usual thing to find him between Hermione and Harry on quiet autumn evenings, a pile of books in front of him, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of a quill.

Either Ron had had a similar realisation, or Neville had taken him aside for a quiet word, because he, too, was taking the task very seriously. Ron still struggled, of course, with finding purpose and pleasure in so many hours in the library. Harry felt unreasonably proud of his best mate as he saw Ron struggle through the research and following Hermione's instructions – reluctantly, it was true, but he was contributing to the team effort.

Frankly, thought Harry as he sat up and stretched, it felt like old times.

Speaking of which, Harry had also kept a careful eye on the youngest Weasley, now that she was at Hogwarts, just to make sure that things didn't follow the original timeline too closely.

His friends were once more forming the kind of shared goal that would bring them closer together, and Harry looked forward to a few years down the track when they _all_ considered each other best friends. He did wish, fervently at times, that Hermione and Ron would sort out the tension between them, because their repeated little confrontations were beginning to grow old.

As far as Harry could tell, Luna also seemed happy despite her exit from the Kettleburn Club. Harry had worked rather hard to find Professor Kettleburn at a good moment, and make his excuses for the both of them. Whatever Thorn and Tsubaka must have told him must have been rather wimpy, because when Harry caught the professor after dinner and tried his own exit speech, things had gone quite well.

When Kettleburn swung around to stare piercingly into Harry's eyes, Harry had merely run a hand through his hair and said that Luna wasn't happy in the club so Harry was leaving with her. Despite Harry's anticipations, Kettleburn didn't moan or complain at all. There were not pointed comments about "students these days," or "unwillingness to risk anything." Instead, Kettleburn had frowned, nodded sharply, and told Harry he was welcome back if he ever changed his mind.

Harry left with the strangest impression that Kettleburn respected his choice. Which seemed odd to Harry, frankly.

But important though his friends were, they weren't part of Harry's long-term plan, after all.

It was the time of year when school pressures, homesickness and teacher expectations all hit the students at once. Not to mention the seasonal colds and sicknesses that fell on Hogwarts like a blanket. Despite all that, Ginny Weasley seemed to look as perky and energetic as she always did.

She had joined Harry and his friends at the library once or twice, doing her own homework while they researched, but generally seemed to be finding her own place with classmates in her year.

Ginny continued to turn red and trip into things when Harry was around, but from what Harry could see from a distance, she seemed to get on well with Colin Creevey and a very small, very quiet girl with short, dark hair called Marcella Müller. Harry wasn't sure of his memories, still being without his Pensieve, but he thought that was new.

He'd see the three of them sitting together at the breakfast table, or studying in a corner of the common room, Ginny's red hair and Colin's blond catching the candlelight, Marcella's inky blackness like the shadow to their light.

Harry could only remember when she hung out with his own year-mates at Hogwarts, and had always assumed that her possession in first-year had ruined her chances to connect with her own classmates.

Judging by her current circumstances, Harry assumed she was safe and well.

Nevertheless, to make sure she stayed safe Harry caught Neville in a corridor on the way to Greenhouse One, and asked that Neville might make a special effort to make sure Ginny was happy and fitting into Hogwarts well.

After Harry's request about the Quidditch game and Quirrell last year, none of his other requests seemed to catch Neville by surprise and he simply raised his eyebrows curiously and agreed.

Neville reported a few days later than she seemed fine, but he was willing to continue to watch over her.

Harry thanked his friend with a grateful smile.

The Slytherin team was causing consternation in the Gryffindor common room, as beaters Fred and George returned from spying on the enemy team to report on their findings. They seemed particularly troubled by the news. It appeared that the new brooms Malfoy had provided were far faster than the ones currently in use by the Gryffindor team, had better manoeuvrability and fantastic handling. That fit with Harry's memories.

Seeing the duo's freckled faces in uncommon melancholy, Harry had to stop himself from promptly mail-ordering the whole team new Nimbus Two Thousands. It occurred to him at the last second that if he went and bought the whole team better brooms, he would be sinking to the depths of a Malfoy.

His self-respect saved him from making a disastrous decision to spend money like water, and very possibly saved him the respect of all of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Quidditch fans.

He resigned himself to long, hard practices with Wood in all weather.

Harry was squelching back from Quidditch practise one Saturday, only to run into a very familiar scene.

Nearly Headless Nick was haunting the gloomy corridor, muttering under his breath about the Headless Hunt, and pedantic rule-keeping.

"Hello, Nick," said Harry charitably.

"Hello, young Harry," the glum ghost replied. "You look troubled."

"As do you," Harry answered. "Did I hear you say something about 'uncharitable huntsmen'?"

"My apologies," the ruffled ghost pulled himself together, and then made a courtly bow. "It was not my intention to trouble the students, thoughtful and kind though they may be."

Harry realised with some surprise that the ghost had been most likely haunting the corridor on purpose, in order to catch the attention and sympathy of impressionable students. Idly, he wondered how he missed that realisation the first timeline.

Then, he thought back to his last experience at the Hallowe'en Death Day party. He pondered the absence of Ginny's bad mood. He considered Hermione, Ron and Neville's current lack of adventures at Hogwarts. He weighed up the potential danger of the night.

"Perhaps I could help out?" he offered hesitantly. With an enthusiastic cry of delight, the Gryffindor ghost immediately accepted his generous offer with extravagant words of praise.

"Oh, what a generous offer! An upstanding young gentleman! But don't put yourself out...I wouldn't want to inconvenience...perhaps you are merely being polite?"

Before he knew it, Harry was accepting an invitation to attend the Deathday celebrations of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington on behalf of himself and his friends. He could even, Harry realised belatedly, turn this into a bonding exercise and bring some of the Ministry Six together again!

Then, with a jolt, Harry heard the sound of a feline meow from somewhere around his ankles.

He remembered with a shudder the current mood of the ever-dour Filch, and his previous experience of dripping Quidditch gear and seething caretaker. Knowing that wherever Mrs Norris went, Filch was close behind, Harry frantically charmed himself dry with his wand, and as soon as he stopped dripping, vanished the trail of muddy puddles he had been leaving in his wake.

Not a moment too soon.

Filch stalked into the corridor in a bad mood. The stooped man stared suspiciously at Harry and his ghostly companion, prowled around them with a long, rattling sniff, but the two Gryffindors kept their heads held high and acted innocent.

Having nothing specific to complain about, the caretaker stalked onwards with a darker scowl, and Harry and Nick took the opportunity to quickly escape away.

Back in the library, once again seated around a table and a whole lot of Gilderoy Lockhart books, his friends were generally receptive to the invitation.

"A Deathday Party?" Hermione enquired after Harry squeezed into the seat next to her and beckoned them all closer. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those – it'll be fascinating!"

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" mumbled Ron, who was most of the way through _Break with a Banshee_ and accordingly frustrated with the world. "Sounds dead depressing to me...dead..._haha_." Ron snickered, darkly.

Hermione met Harry's amused gaze and rolled her eyes.

"It will be a wonderful learning experience," she nodded determinedly. "Please tell Nearly Headl – Sir Nicholas that we would be honoured to attend."

Harry pulled out his own study materials and arranged himself around the table where his friends sat cosily.

Soon he was lulled into a quiet focus and the quiet sounds of the library rustled around him. Easily avoiding Madam Pince's foreboding glare, Harry pulled open his latest Lockhart book and glanced down Hermione's most up-to-date list of spells cross-referenced.

The drumming sound of the rain on the windows, gentle scratching of quills on parchment, and low murmurings of other students in the library settled Harry down, and he slowly sank into the companionable bubble of industrious silence.

* * *

As the day came closer, Harry's satisfaction at organising a safe adventure for his friends to bond over rapidly developed into a form of regret.

Each day that brought Harry closer to Hallowe'en also brought back memories of last time he visited Nearly Headless Nick's party. Despite still not having his Pensieve, Harry soon found himself remembering all too clearly the cold and gloom, and the foul reek of decomposing fish that would permeate the dungeons.

His reluctance was only highlighted by the general good cheer that was surrounding the rest of the school. The Great Hall had been hung with fantastic decorations – live bats, huge jack'o'lanterns that could hold three grown men inside, and Harry remembered with a pang the delicious food that was always provided by the house-elves.

Ron, who had been the least interested out of the four Gryffindors, was loudly bemoaning Harry's choice of entertainment for the evening. Harry himself did understand Ron's frustration, and sat thoughtfully in the Gryffindor common room trying to solve Ron's biggest problem while his friends dealt with the immediate issue. Hermione, the fabulous side-kick that she was, spent most of the Saturday repressing Ron's most vocal complaints, and was finally supported by a few soft words from Neville.

"It's a House pride thing," the quiet boy murmured to Ron as he sulked in one of the squishy common room chairs. "C'mon, it will be interesting to see once, and Nearly Headless Nick will only celebrate his five hundredth deathday once. Think of what you could tell the twins. Not even Percy's been to a Deathday Party, right?"

Ron subsided to think about the possibilities, and Hermione patted Neville on the shoulder in thanks.

An hour before the Hallowe'en feast – and thus the Deathday Party – began, Harry and his friends snuck quietly out of the common room and wandered over to the Ravenclaw Tower entrance.

Soon the four were milling around at the top of the staircase, huffing a little after the long climb.

Harry felt his thighs burn a little as he stood, stooped over on the landing, trying to catch his breath.

The familiar, dark wood door stood before them, with no lock or doorknob to let them pass. The bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle seemed to mock their intentions.

Harry glanced around the landing quickly, hoping to see a Ravenclaw student coming up the stairs, but it was not to be.

With a shrug in Hermione's direction, he quickly reached out and rapped the bronze knocker once.

To his friends' amazement, the eagle's beak opened and its soft, musical voice rang out.

"Feed me and I live, give me water and I die. What am I?"

"Er..." Harry managed intelligently, and paused, stuck. He looked at his friends. After a startled pause, Neville sank deep into thought, his forehead furrowed deeply. Ron, after a look of surprise, began mumbling to himself quickly.

It was Hermione who solved their dilemma.

"Oh, honestly," she sighed, and stepped forward to speak to the door. "The answer is fire."

"Precisely," the eagle sang, and with a quiet click the door swung open. Harry and his friends shared an awkward glance before they all gathered together and shuffled towards the threshold.

Inching closer, curiously, Harry and his friends peered into the Ravenclaw common room nosily as they all crowded around the door. Harry himself found himself comparing the room with his rather dim memories: last time he had been in Ravenclaw tower, of course, he'd had other things – like Voldemort – on his mind.

A number of students were dotted around the spacious circular room. Tall, peaked windows let in the dusky colours of sunset, and, illuminated by a golden glow in a niche directly opposite the entrance, stood the graceful stone figure of Rowena Ravenclaw. In contrast to the cozy, homey feeling of the Gryffindor common room, the Ravenclaw mood seemed quiet and industrious, and somehow more spacious. There were less large groups gathering together, Harry compared thoughtfully. Ravenclaws in twos and threes were grouped together and chatting quietly, but nowhere was there a group of over ten, as the Gryffindors would have had.

A Ravenclaw student, a sixth year, Harry thought fuzzily, noticed their intrusion when Hermione gasped and gabbled in surprise, and rapidly approached to prevent their entrance.

A short while later, Harry had successfully reassured the Ravenclaw that this was not a Gryffindor invasion, they were happy not to come in, but could someone please find and fetch first-year Luna Lovegood please? His dreamy friend was called out of the dormitories immediately and followed the friends down the stone staircase in pleasure.

"Luna," Harry began, once they'd reached the bottom of the tower and cleared the staircase. "Meet Hermione, Neville, Ron. Guys, Luna Lovegood."

His Gryffindor friends murmured quiet greetings as they stared in curiosity at Luna's strange appearance. She stood serenely in a costume of all white, her feet bare and a strange little lace fabric thing draped across her hair and over her eyes. Combined with her pale skin and hair, she looked almost unearthly, even in the sensible lighting on the castle corridor.

"All Hallows greetings," Luna offered in a dreamy, whimsical voice. "Souls wander as the veil thins this night."

"Er, yes," Harry said, being supremely unsurprised by her appearance. "Luna's father is the editor of the Quibbler," he sent a sharp look Hermione's way, "and she's a brave as a Gryffindor and loyal as a Hufflepuff." He completed his introductions and subsided in curiosity to watch as his friends weighed the strange girl up.

Hermione, having caught Harry's hint, managed to hold her tongue and said nothing critical, which unfortunately for the moment meant that she said nothing at all. Ron knew her already, of course, but was still momentarily caught up in taking in her strange appearance, which Harry thought was really rather tame for the girl. She didn't even have her wand tucked behind her ear, for Merlin's sake! It was up to Neville to offer his hand. He held it out in front of him, waiting for her handshake.

To Harry's amusement, Luna eyed Neville's hand curiously from beneath her lacy cap, and after meeting the eyes of each Gryffindor, also bowed a little towards Neville's outstretched arm.

After an awkward pause where nobody spoke, Neville let his arm drop back to his side.

Harry, having completed his introductions and enjoyed befuddling the group of them, then turned to lead his little band through the castle. He hadn't precisely told his friends the schedule for the evening, only asked them not to eat before they left the common room.

As such, he merrily led the way towards the Hufflepuff dungeons, stopping by a particularly vibrant painting of a silver fruit bowl. With a sly grin at all of them, Ron in particular, he reached up and tickled the pear, and the resulting doorknob saw the portrait swing open to allow them entrance into the warm and welcoming glow of Hogwarts kitchen.

The kitchen was as large as Harry remembered it. Five huge tables were dwarfed by the soaring height of the ceiling and the hustle of at least a hundred house-elves filled the space with clatters and patters and noise. Various platters and pots and plates were zipping around the room – manoeuvred by house-elves half their size: some trays balanced on heads, others somehow defying gravity and dwarfing the arms that carried them.

The heat from a dozen fires had warmed the room to a humid temperature, and the scent of roast meat and wood-fed fires made a number of stomachs gurgle in sudden hunger.

Harry felt a momentary burst of fierce protective instincts, and determined all over again to protect the lives of the loyal Hogwarts inhabitants.

While he and his friends had paused in amazement at the door, they rapidly drew the attention of the closest of elves. A nearby worker in a tidy tea towel toga, Hogwarts emblem proudly displayed, immediately approached and assured them of his pleasure at the visit.

"Harry Potter! Such an honour!" the little thing squeaked, and Harry made another round of introductions. This wasn't his little friend Pookey, Harry knew, but he had become something of a familiar figure in the kitchens and assumed she had spoken about him. He turned to his friends.

"These are the Hogwarts kitchens," Harry gestured grandly at the huge, industrious space, "and the true Hogwarts army." He heard a surprised squeak coming from the friendly house-elf, and smiled at him reassuringly. "They run this place with military precision." Having completed his introductions, Harry paused to assess his friends' reactions.

With a look of gleeful awe on his face, Ron was the first to regain his senses and moved to sit at the nearest table. To Harry's surprise, he reached out and grabbed at Hermione's elbow as he did so, pulling her overwhelmed form with him as he went. Unsurprisingly, of course, Hermione was staring, enraptured, at the space around them. She followed Ron without resistance, still gaping at the cauldrons and fireplaces with open-mouthed awe as she did. Neville then startled alert and followed.

Harry was relatively unsurprised to find that Luna did not look surprised at all, and merely followed the group as they started moving, looking all the while as if she had merely paused with them out of politeness.

The friends were hustled over to a nearby table and generously bestowed with plates piled high with food.

Ron and Neville dug in with thanks. Luna did the same, with a little more decorum. Harry took a moment to watch Hermione's reaction. She was still gazing around the room in amazement, her mouth working, and he leaned closer to catch her whispered voice.

"...the magical transference...Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration...no wonder I never...Harry," she interrupted her own train of thought. "What – who are these...crea–, thi–, workers?"

"Hermione, meet the Hogwarts house-elves," Harry indicated the room with a wide sweep of his hand. "Home to over one hundred magical beings, these are the housekeepers, cleaners and cooks of the castle. Helga Hufflepuff herself introduced them to the job." He sat back and watched her reaction keenly.

Hermione drew her lips together and peered around more critically. "Why aren't they wearing _clothes_, Harry?" she began disapprovingly.

Incredibly, Harry had forgotten about that crusade.

He hurried to reassure her. "It's a sign of their belonging," he rushed out. "They believe that to be given clothes is a symbol of dishonour and failure. You see how clean they all are? The fabric unwrinkled, unspotted? The Hogwarts crest on their chests so proudly? Please be careful not to accidentally insult them," he begged. "They deserve to be respected for their work."

Seeing her unconvinced, he quickly suggested that she assuage her concerns on another day, when they were less rushed, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when Hermione hummed a little in tentative agreement, and consented to come back with her questions at a later date.

They managed to finish their meals in the warmth and bustle quickly, and rushed back out of the kitchen with generous compliments to the house-elf who had been watching over them.

The small grey creature swelled up with pride and saw them out wreathed in smiles. Harry was sure he saw Hermione take note of the house elf's pleasure in their compliments.

Then, following Harry, the friends wandered down into the dungeons, beyond the warmth and light of the kitchen towards the ghostly chill of the Deathday Party. Down near the dungeons, as the light dropped out of sight behind them into a gloomy dimness, the cold drew more bitter with every step. Watching for it, Harry saw puffs of white steam beginning to issue out of his mouth. The everyday noises of life in the castle seemed to fade behind them with every step that they took down the stairs and soon even Ron and Hermione stopped chattering in what soon became oppressive silence.

Small gusts of cold air tickled the exposed skin on Harry's face and hands and he stepped slowly down the stairs. He'd forgotten this atmosphere, the uncanny cold, the solemn silence.

Just as Harry felt his ears were going to pop with the lack of noise, a doorway at the bottom of the stairs cracked open and the ghostly-pale figure of Nearly Headless Nick welcomed them through.

Hermione and Neville paused in wonder as they passed through the dungeon entrance. Harry continued further onwards, but saw the sight with new eyes and once more he marvelled at the incredible scene. Black candles in the wall sconces and the grand chandelier cast a dim light on the party. The small blue flames flickered but failed to cheer the room, leaving the space barely illuminated, gloomy and otherworldly. Harry noticed the little puffs of air he and his friends exhaled glow blue in the dim, eerie light: a tangible sign of their living state in the deathly chill.

They drew their robes closer.

Hundreds of pearly ghosts waltzed around the room in metered rhythm, the stately lords and ladies stepping in elaborate patterns to the tempo of the eerie orchestra. Despite the music, the dancers themselves paced with chilling silence, no weight to step with, no shoes to make sound. The centre of the room undulated with translucent dancing bodies.

Time passed at a strange speed, neither slow nor fast, as though Harry and his friends had somehow stepped out of the world of the living. He wondered, suddenly, shockingly, if spending time with the dead on All Hallows Eve had drawn them somehow out of time.

Harry banished the thought with a shiver and returned his attention to the party.

The friends wandered around the room curiously, attempting polite conversation and avoiding the food. Harry, after the first awful whiff of decomposed fish, felt compelled to cast a silent bubble-headed charm on himself and his companions. The subsequent experience was considerably more comfortable because of it.

It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world when Harry realised that he had lost track of time. He did not know how long they had spent there in the dungeon, halfway between the living world and the dead. He mouthed the question at Hermione, his most logical of friends.

"The time?" His lips made the shapes, but no sound came out of his mouth as though time was a concept he could not address here.

She shrugged. It seemed Hermione had the same problem.

They continued mingling in the chilly darkness, friendly ghosts and otherworldly chatter nevertheless feeling one step removed from living conversations. Nearly Headless Nick was a very attentive host; Harry felt that their presence at his party must be some kind of point of pride for the friendly ghost. But even that social warmth seemed somehow distant to Harry's everyday life.

"Hogwart's clubs?" Nearly Headless Nick echoed as Harry tried to fight against the oppressive noiselessness and hold a conversation. "I haven't thought about those for a good few decades now, I shouldn't think. Have you considered the Fencing Club? Jousting?"

Harry had not, considering that he was pretty sure neither club existed anymore.

"Ballroom dancing?" Nick tried again, and Harry demurred for the same reason. Somehow he felt he understood ghosts a little bit more: they existed out of time from the moment of their death. Old knowledge remained, recent knowledge escaped them quickly.

They were not _living,_ Harry finally realised what wizard-raised students knew from the cradle. With an almost physical surge of gratefulness, Harry finally felt relieved that his parents had peacefully passed on.

The weight of years seemed to press down on Harry suddenly as he looked at the dancing figures, refugees lost from their own time. Harry felt once again that the dungeon was removed somehow from the real world.

He wondered if the veil really did thin on All Hallows Eve. Was the gap between the living and dead truly breached on such a night?

He felt a shiver run down his spine.

All of a sudden, the party was interrupted by the baying of wraithlike hounds and the ghostly exuberance of the Headless Hunt that coursed into the dungeon. Suddenly seeming like his old, familiar self, Nearly Headless Nick apologised to Harry for leaving him and went to scold the unwelcome visitors. It felt nostalgic to see Nick stride off in indignation, stalking towards the Hunt with poised displeasure.

Catching the eyes of his friends, Harry hurried them all out of the party and up the stairs, leaving the chaos behind them.

* * *

Luna followed along in the older students' wake, still somehow ethereal herself, different to the very human-like huffing and puffing of the Gryffindors who had forced themselves to rush up the stairs to warm their muscles.

As they returned back into the warmer corridors, where cheery yellow light was merrily flickering, Harry happened to glance back at Luna and saw her lips were blue. Her feet too, he noticed, looked red and sore. He swiftly conjured her a woollen blanket for her shoulders and cast a warming charm in her direction.

She pulled out of her introspective mood and nodded her thanks in his direction.

The group was approaching the Entrance Hall, on the way to return Luna to the Ravenclaw tower, when Harry heard the whisper in the walls.

"_...rip...tear...kill...hunger..."_

He promptly stubbed his toe on the perfectly level floor and stumbled into Neville.

Ron and Hermione began to make a fuss.

"Oh, honestly Harry, how could you let yourself get so cold?" Hermione began. Ron started to crack a joke, but Harry waved them off in a panic and skittered down the hallway in the direction of the whisper.

"_..ssoo hungry...ssso long...tear and devour...blood and flesssh..."_

"Shhh...not now...I can't..." he hissed at his friends. There was a pause: Harry, tense and listening halfway down the corridor; his friends watching him in confusion. After a long moment of silence, his voice sounded loud in his own ears.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to...did you hear that?"

Confused headshakes were directed at him.

"Luna, did you hear that?" Harry asked hopefully. Who knew what strange senses the incomprehensible blonde had at her command.

"Sorry, Harry. Was it your mother?"

Harry almost fell over again at the sound of hope in her voice. He had to pause to flash her an apologetic smile, and scratched his head.

"Oh, Luna. Sorry, not this time...I think...it went up...we need to hurry."

He turned and dashed off towards the Entrance Hall, his friends exchanging confused looks before hurrying along in his wake.

Harry ran straight to up the stairs, passing the hubbub of student voices, doors pooling with light, and directly up onto the second floor.

He hoped madly as he ran that the whispers would stay away from the Great Hall. Hundreds of students, unaware of the danger...

He screeched to a halt with a curse.

Hermione and Ron, closest behind him, gasped with surprise as they saw huge words in red scrawled high on a corridor wall.

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

Water was spread all over the floor and pooling down the hallway. An empty collar dangled, alone, from a torch bracket. Harry crept closer, his fingers crossed, and then cursed heartily. His friends approached in confusion as Harry's voice, strangled, sounded from down the corridor, and Luna and Neville finally caught up to the group and skidded unevenly to a stop. While his friends were frozen in shock, horror, confusion, Harry dashed off immediately towards the Gryffindor Tower. Noticing his direction, the friends followed closely on behind.

Towards the Fat Lady Harry dashed, ignoring his tired thigh muscles from the evening's exertions, ignoring the tightness of his lungs as he pushed himself further than he had in months. Harry's heavy footsteps thundered down the deserted stone corridors, his harsh breathing sounding loud in his own ears.

Behind him panted the confused and worried voices of his friends.

"Harry?" someone asked. "What's," they ran out of breath, "wrong?"

"Mate?"

Their confused mutterings began to fall behind as Harry pelted along corridors and skidded around corners.

"Do you know what he's…?"

"Did you hear…?" His friends seemed to ask each other, but Harry was determined to run back to his luggage. There was a horrible sinking in his chest, and a heavy lump in his stomach.

He could feel the blood pump through the veins in his temples and sweat begin to matt his forehead and then roll down his face with his jolting footsteps.

Falling behind him, his friends obviously lacked Harry's sudden urgency and did not understand what was going on.

But he knew they would follow, so he arrived, panting and alone, at the portrait of the Fat Lady and gasped out the password.

She raised one eyebrow quizzically after he huffed out the words. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry doubled over, still catching his breath but not willing to waste any time. "_Eshnilil'it_," he managed.

The statuesque portrait sniffed. "Repeat that, if you would?"

"_Esh-nilo-ilit_."

Shifting her position with great dignity and no haste, the Fat Lady irritated Harry hugely by rolling her eyes. She seemed to have no idea of the urgency of the situation. "Students," she bemoaned. "You younger generations are all rush and no rules. Why, in my day – "

"_Ex__ nihilo nihil fit_!"

The portrait swung open and Harry clambered inside with no time for dignity.

Her indignant, "Well! I never!" sounded distantly behind him as Harry raced straight up the stairs to his dormitory even before her portrait swung closed once more.

Something, Harry felt deep in his gut, had gone terribly, horribly wrong in his plans.


	13. The Unwelcome Truth

Harry paid no mind to the burning of his thighs, or the roughness of his breath as he dashed up the stone steps of Gryffindor Tower. He noticed, with the absent focus of someone operating under high stress, that somehow he had scratched the palm of his hand in the mad dash through Hogwarts' corridors, and he was leaving small smudges of blood behind him each time he grabbed a door frame or corner to control his run.

He ignored it, and panted on.

Gasping for air, Harry made it to his trunk at the end of his bed and doubled over, gasping heavily.

Sweaty hands fumbled at his neck; he dragged the mokeskin pouch out from under his robes and dug his trembling fingers through the leather for his keys.

He jerked out his wand instead, then swore. Wrong thing. Harry went to throw it away – checked himself, the wand was important, after all – and instead placed it absent-mindedly on the corner of his bed.

Again. He snagged a corner of his Invisibility Cloak and tossed it to one side.

A third time. Harry found and tossed a number of his small treasures, and his coin pouch, before he realised that his mental state was getting in the way of the small magic that made the mokeskin pouch work.

Forcing himself to blink, Harry drew a deep, slow breath. In the corner of his eyes, the bed hangings seemed to waver as if in a haze. He felt his own body heat rise up around his face with a smothering touch. Harry's irritation grew.

Then he dragged his mind back to the task, his grasping fingers finally closing on something that seemed right.

Still slouched over struggling for breath, Harry fumbled for the right key and finally forced his trembling hands to insert it into the lock and turn it right.

There was a click.

Harry clambered into the trunk and stumbled down the shallow steps into the depth of his third compartment.

He lurched past the single Vanishing Cabinet that he had liberated from its spot on Borgin and Burkes. Eyes fixed straight on his target, Harry stumbled to a halt just in front of the innocuous little book sitting in the middle of the room.

Furious with the book, with himself, with the Basilisk, Harry snarled at the thing and lifted his wand arm up to curse.

A fire-curse, Harry thought. That'd sort it. Prove its nature one way or the other.

…Then, Harry realised that he had left his wand on the corner of his bed in the rush to get down here. He paused, directionless for a moment.

Slowly lowering his arm, Harry took a moment to regain himself. The diary was just lying there, after all.

Flushing with embarrassment, he glanced around the room as if someone could have been looking to see him lose control.

It was empty, of course.

Harry straightened, rolled his shoulders, clicked his knuckles. Then he relaxed, and let most of the tension and panic drain out of him. Closing his eyes, breathing in the warm and slightly stale smell of luggage air, he breathed out slowly.

"Phewwww."

He reached up to push some of the hair, plastered to his damp forehead, up and out of the way. Then he eyed the diary suspiciously.

It sat on the ground, there in his third compartment, peacefully. It looked entirely unconcerned with Harry's destructive tendencies. Its smug appearance made Harry all the more determined to sort it out once and for all.

Reaching down to grab it, Harry paused.

Then instead of using his bare hands, Harry grasped the corner of his robe and gingerly picked this slim, black book up, allowing it to dangle precariously between his fingers.

On second thoughts, Harry realised, as his brain finally pushed past the panic, setting the diary alight with all the power and rage he could muster would have been a terrible idea while both he and the diary were still inside the trunk.

What happened if magically powered flame caught an expansion enchantment by surprise anyway? He might have killed himself if the expansion charms had failed.

Remorseful and mortified, Harry left the trunk quickly and took a moment to work on his Occlumency. It wasn't worth much if he lost his common sense under threat, but hopefully he could improve things before it was too late.

Then he stooped, and returned his things to where they should be. The book, now that Harry had regained his rationality, merely taunted him while he did so. He resented its smugness, just a bit. After he tidying himself up, Harry gingerly grabbed it again and plodded down the stairs.

* * *

Despite all the time it took Harry to race to his bedroom and have his little panic attack, when he returned to the common room, his friends were still clustered around the outside of the Fat Lady's entrance.

Harry wandered over to them with merely a longing glance at the common room fireplace, burning brightly, and craned his head out the door.

"What's keeping you?"

Three faces looked up at Harry indignantly. Ironically, only Luna seemed relaxed.

"She's a Ravenclaw!" Ron protested, obviously continuing an ongoing argument.

Luna seemed strangely interested in the stonework under her feet. She contemplated it closely, a thoughtful, untroubled look upon her brow.

Neville spoke with slow, purposeful, and surprisingly irritated clarity. "Harry might need her."

Hermione wavered. "Well, the rules…but Harry…Neville, I just don't know." She looked at Harry hopefully. "What do you think, Harry? Can she come in? _Hogwarts: a History _always did say that access to common rooms were restricted."

Harry raised his eyebrows. Since when had he ever...? He realised that this Hermione had never been influenced to ignore the rules when it suited her. He paused. "Better let her come in for now," he finally managed, visions of student interrogations about red writing on the wall flitting across his eyes. "We'd better stick together at the moment."

He stood back and gestured for all his friends to enter the room, Luna coming in last and gazing at him with questioning eyes.

He smiled her way. It was meant to be encouraging, but it may have come out a bit wrong.

Once his friends were all in the room, Harry turned suddenly and strode across the common room to in front of the fire. He passed the soft chairs with focus, strode over the ember-burned rug purposefully, and to Hermione's little gasp of surprise and Ron's mumbled shock, threw the diary into the blaze.

Stooping, Harry watched closely.

For a moment, as Harry stood there, heat beating on his face, orange tongues flickering, he thought things would be simple. The book sat there quietly, the flames grasping _around_ it. Satisfaction began rising up from his gut like heat; things would be simpler if...

Then, with a little hiss and a small slow creep, a corner of the book caught alight and a tongue of flame slowly crept along the front cover. The diary curled at the edges, glossy writing faded, and the white pages began to turn black.

Harry heard only the hissing and flicker of flames as the diary began to turn into ashes.

It was merely a book.

He turned, numb, to face the curious looks of his friends.

"What's happening, mate?" Ron asked worriedly. "What was that? Why did we come here?"

Harry fidgeted slowly, wiping his damp hands on his robe, running his hands through his hair again.

His mouth worked silently for a moment as his brain rushed through what he could say.

Hermione did not wait. "Why did we come back? We need to _tell _someone," she suggested. "Maybe it was a prank? Was that a _collar_? What did you hear?" She paused. "Was that a _library book_ just now? What have you _done_, Harry?"

"No! Not at all," Harry desperately denied. "Just, just some old notes." She looked at him searchingly. "Of mine," he added. "Which were mainly wrong. I just thought I'd get rid of them while I remember." He watched as Hermione's hackles settled down and returned once more to his more momentous thoughts.

Ron shuffled over to Neville and murmured something that Harry didn't catch.

Instead, Harry's mouth worked, his brain spinning but the words he was reaching for never really came.

"Uh," he managed, looking at his curious friends blankly. His voice broke awkwardly under the pressure, and he squeaked, "Um?" Harry coughed. "I thought…well, it was a really bad idea to be caught there, ah, with the…writing I mean."

Hermione was giving him a very worried look. "That's true, Harry. Look, why don't you sit down? You're looking a bit peaky."

"Yeah," Harry nodded numbly. "Right."

His friends looked at him uneasily while Harry stumbled over to the closest chair and collapsed into its cushiony-softness. They continued to stare at him as they also sat down, much more sedately than he did.

"So?" Ron finally asked, breaking the awkward silence, leaning forward in his chair. "What's going on? Do you need help?"

"Help," Harry managed. "Right."

He paused again, unsure of what to say. While his mouth seemed empty, however, Harry's thoughts were rushing a mile a minute.

If the diary was fake, Harry realised slowly, then it must have gone missing from his trunk. How could that be? Who had access to the boys' dorms? A lot of people, Harry was dismayed to realise. All the Gryffindor boys, to start with. And girls, house elves, teachers…had a prefect done a check for contraband? When was it taken, Harry wondered? He'd been at school for weeks.

He continued to obsess. Who did the writing? Would they have skipped the feast? Could he check, somehow?

Whoever had the diary was presumably the same person controlling the basilisk.

His thoughts trailed off in the face of his friend's expectant expressions.

"Uh..." Harry tried, "I thought I heard...slithering... in the walls. Through the pipes, maybe." His mind raced to come up with an explanation that would not sound mad. "I had to run to keep up, but it got ahead. When it disappeared...I, uh...wanted to check if the dorms were safe."

"Riiight," Hermione responded. "And the diary?"

"…might have been cursed?" Harry squeaked. It was a pathetic explanation. Harrey cringed.

"Mate," said Ron, looking properly awed. "You don't want to get caught by a cursed diary now, sharing all your inner thoughts and stuff. That stuff powers strong magic, that does."

Neville nodded, and Hermione's scepticism settled down as she looked incredulously at her magic-raised classmates.

"Really?"

Harry zoned out a bit as his mind returned to the problem at hand. Although he didn't know where the diary was, he did know how to access the chamber.

Why, he could pop off tonight and kill the Basilisk while people slept. Or maybe tomorrow night. Better make it a week, Harry amended, suddenly deciding he would take the mature approach for once.

He'd get Pookey to buy him some roosters, Harry decided. Take a few tools along. That would solve the worst of the problems. It would only take a short while to organise.

Then Harry hesitated. There was something niggling at the back of this brain, something just out of his reach…

Luna spoke up, looking entirely unconcerned about the bigger picture, but solicitous of Harry. "Are you worried about the paradoxes?" she asked out of nowhere. "Sometimes things have to happen before other things, and sometimes they have to happen together."

Hermione, interrupted from whatever segue she had gone off on, rolled her eyes. Harry, on the other hand, paused his thoughts.

"Happen together?" he repeated. He looked searchingly into Luna's eyes, but the Ravenclaw girl didn't seem to have any idea what he was wrestling with. Still, there was that thought just out of his grasp…

"Ah." All conversation paused as Harry clapped his hands when the thought connected.

He couldn't kill the Basilisk just yet, Harry realised, because an unknown student would still be possessed. He didn't know what Tom Riddle would do to the school if the Basilisk was suddenly killed just as he was beginning his plans, but Harry was sure and certain that he didn't want to find out.

He'd have no way to find the possessed student, Harry realised with a shiver, if they had no reason to wander on through Myrtle's bathroom. He'd have no idea how to stop Tom's new plans if he didn't know what those plans were.

"Paradoxes," Harry repeated, suddenly cold with horror at what he had almost missed. "Thanks, Luna."

A few minutes passed while his friends muttered cautiously around him, and Harry regained his equilibrium.

Then he turned to Neville and Ron, and asked the question at the forefront of his mind.

"So, ahh...how is Ginny doing this term?" The teens looked at him in surprise.

"...Alright, mate?" Ron offered.

Neville confirmed. "She seems fine. Happy. Making friends. I do homework with her sometimes," he admitted, sparing a sideward glance for Ron. "Since you asked me to look out for her. She seems normal?"

"Huh," Harry subsided, and blushed as the group looked at him curiously. "It's alright, Ron," Harry quickly defended. "I don't _fancy_ her or anything," ..._yet_, he added mentally. She was far too young. "It just seemed like a rough thing to worry about in her first year, so I'm glad she's got friends to look out for her.

"It." Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow.

Meanwhile, "I don't see you worrying about Luna's friends," Ron mumbled suspiciously.

"Well, she's with us, isn't she?" Harry's thoughtless words nevertheless caused the blonde Ravenclaw to draw herself up with a pleased blush, and she took her curious gaze off the Gryffindor common room fittings to sit taller in her chair, a little closer to Harry.

* * *

A short while later, Harry returned from his thoughtful musings to realise that the banquet would be finished shortly, and Luna should probably not be found inside their common room. Harry allowed Hermione to organise them out of the tower and back towards the scene of the crime. They were met halfway by a gaggle of students being herded in their direction.

Hermione and Ron were quick to find out all the rumours: a prank gone wrong, Slytherin's heir returned, muggleborns in danger, Mrs Norris killed and eaten, Mrs Norris _kidnapped_ as revenge on Argus Filch for a previous punishment. Possibly an alumnus, Lavender had whispered dramatically. Someone who gained power after school and returned to revist their old tormentor.

Harry shivered at the parallels.

Alternatively, Draco Malfoy was plotting to take over the school in a bid to support his father's candidacy for Minister of Magic. Peeves had apparently denied all responsibility. The rumours grew.

As Harry and Neville saw Luna quietly back to her tower safely, Neville was most concerned about her health and state of mind, but Harry himself was somewhat distracted.

He was running over his plan of action.

Finally retiring to bed after the fuss, Harry drew the drapes around his bed, set up a silencing charm and promptly rolled over to make a list. With a whispered "_Lumos,_" his wandtip lit and Harry began scratching his quill on a spare piece of parchment.

_Diary stolen. Fake diary in trunk. _

– _Protective wards still seem to be intact?_

_ Security? Someone in my luggage? Who? When?_

– _How to break into my luggage? Dark magic?_

He paused in his scratching to chew his quill tip and consider what his priorities would be.

_ Stop attacks,_ Harry finally scribbled down.

– _Mrs Norris: petrified or eaten?_

_ Find/destroy diary, or kill Basilisk? – Which to do first? _

_ Timeline: when/where were the petrifications?_

Harry wished again he had a Penseive. That would solve so many of his problems. How could he keep the students safe now?

– _Mirrors for_ sale, he finally scratched out along the bottom of the parchment. _Start habit? __Why buy?_

After a generous half-hour of brainstorming, he had a basic plan. He extinguished his wand with a breath and curled up under his sheets. It had been a long day and an unwelcome surprise, and tomorrow would be busier than ever.

* * *

The next morning, Harry woke early and completed his Occlumency exercises according to his habit. Then, as soon as he heard his dormmates begin to stir, he rose out of bed and headed straight to the Hogwarts Owlery, the first step in his plan.

He climbed the steps with a pang in his heart. He had discovered not long ago, that his Hedwig was a happy occupant of the Owlery, but under a different name. He had a tendency to avoid her when possible since it always felt uncomfortable when she failed to recognise him. She never bothered to look at his reproachfully any more, or pecked his ear gently, or flew down to settle on his shoulder. Her absence stung. Nethertheless, Harry huffed up the stairs, feeling as though his thighs had been getting a better work out than usual recently.

And that was saying something, since Hogwarts was full of staircases!

It was with disappointment and relief that he soon saw the Owlery empty of Hedwig; she must have been out flying somewhere as he arrived in the airy little room at the top of the tower, and the small act felt like a moment of mercy.

Harry didn't know how much more guilt he could cope with at the moment.

The Hogwarts Owl he borrowed was directed to fly straight to Stowe and Packers to enquire as to how his luggage might have been broken in to. What damage might be identified if that was the case?

He had briefly considered calling Dobby, but soon dismissed the errant thought from his mind. If Dobby knew Harry had lost the diary, he would think Harry was once again in danger. His well-intentioned attempts to 'protect' Harry might get out of hand. And now that Harry had changed so much of the timeline – asking Dobby not to interfere, telling Dobby he had stopped the crisis – he would be unable to predict what enthusiastic form of crisis management Dobby would attempt to try next.

Harry gazed around the Owlery with a cynical eye. It was times like this he missed Hedwig the most, a loving, non-judgemental being to comfort him and scold him, a companion and provider of moral support. But he thought he knew which student she belonged to now, a Hufflepuff prefect he had never spoken to. Hopefully they were happy together.

He descended the stairs slowly, and continued through the day with a preoccupied air.

* * *

Hermione pulled him aside at lunch.

"I know last night was strange," she began without preamble, "But why are you looking at Neville like that? You're making him feel awkward."

Harry shook himself alert.

"What? Neville? You think he's acting strange then?"

Hermione snorted. "No. _You're_ the one acting strange. What's wrong? Did Neville do something?"

"Oh...so you don't think he's happy?"

"Not right now," Hermione answered with a scowl. "He thinks you're mad at him. Did he do something?"

"Oh," Harry deflated. "Probably not. Healthy?"

Hermione shot him a concerned look and nodded without speaking. The two friends shared a moment of preoccupied silence before Harry spoke again.

"What about Ron then? You think he's alright?"

"Probably," proclaimed Hermione irritably. "How should I know, after all? It's not like Ron confides in me." She huffed, then continued on with more concern. "Is this about last night? It's either a prank, Harry, and it doesn't really matter, or it's the Heir of Slytherin, isn't it?"

Harry reflected gloomily on Mrs Norris' empty collar. She had been eaten, he had come to conclude, by the Basilisk, who must have regurgitated her collar like it also did with bones. No petrified body had turned up, which added to Harry's anxiety. There was no guarantee that no one would die this time around, after all, and the death of Mrs Norris really didn't bode well.

Filch, of course, was hysterical. But with the lack of proof or other clues, the rest of the school was still unsure as to whether the chilling message should be taken seriously.

Not even Dumbledore would be aware of the Dark Magic at work in his school, Harry reasoned slowly. He had supported Harry last timeline because Petrification was too advanced for a student to manage, but kidnapping a cat? Anyone could manage that. The teachers probably thought it was a malicious prank!

Harry knew, however, that Hagrid's chicken run was probably a little emptier this morning.

"Alright, fair enough," he returned, having forgotten precisely what he and Hermione were talking about. "Everything's fine, I promise. I'm just sleepy."

With that excuse, Harry rejoined his friends in conversation, but kept a suspicious eye out for people acting out of character.

After an anxious day in class, Harry threw himself into his self-directed study with a fervour unseen since the previous year. He friends exchanged puzzled looks over his head, but Hermione at least seemed content to let Harry work off his strange mood through study and the others followed her lead. At the end of the day, Harry was visited in the common room a large brown owl with a letter. He pocketed it smoothly, and returned to his studies to avoid attracting the attention of his friends, but later that night in bed was quick to break open the seal.

As he eagerly scanned the words, he felt a rush of confusion.

_Dear valued customer,_

_Thank you for your enquiry. Regarding your query, I am pleased to inform you that it is simply impossible for the locks on an enchanted dragon-leather trunk to be breached by force in the absence of evidence. As the protections of the luggage you purchased from us some time ago are indeed the strongest enchantments we currently have, if an attempt on the lock in the absence of the keys had been made, only two things are possible. _

_Ordinarily, the thief and his magic would be frustrated, totally unable to damage the protections in any way as the dragon leather repels offensive magic from its surrounds. However, if a particularly powerful wizard managed to overcome the leather and charms through pure force, then the lock and other metalwork would be visibly melted and buckled, immediately revealing the breach. Even if the thief attempted to repair the external damage to hide the incident, access to the trunk would thereafter remain impossible as the Undetectable Expansion Charms would have failed, and the multiple compartments collapsed. Widespread damage to the contents would immediately be apparent._

_Our only suggestion would be to consider any times that you misplaced your keys._

_Regards_

_Horatio Packers_

_Stowe and Packers Magical Bags_

Harry sighed in frustration, and picked up his wand to banish the offending parchment. It was pure chance that he let his eyes linger on the words, as he reached over to grasp his wand and then aborted the attempt with a gasp.

As he reread the letter a second time, Harry's eyes lit up. His mokeskin pouch still hung around his neck, as it always did. When not using his luggage keys, they constantly lived in the mokeskin pouch, and as Hagrid had told him specifically a lifetime ago, _only the owner can remove anything _from such a pouch. More particularly, no one but Harry had used his keys.

With a rush of optimism, Harry's thoughts raced ahead. There was one other way to access the third compartment of his trunk; namely, the Vanishing Cabinet he had ironically placed there as a security measure. Which was broken, unusable, and besides, no rumours of students getting lost inside its companion had reached his ears.

He'd have to sort that out soon anyway, Harry reasoned. No reason to put that off, after all.

As Hermione had taught him what seemed like such a short time ago on their hunt for Horcruxes, _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_. His luggage was therefore safe. All his notes about the future timeline remained secret and unseen. Nothing and nobody had travelled into his trunk compartments. Somehow it all meant that the diary had been switched _before_ he placed it into his third compartment.

After a careful mental search, wishing so hard for the Pensieve that it _hurt_, Harry could determine that the only day in which the diary might have been stolen was the day of his trip to Diagon Alley. There had been lots of people on the streets, he remembered with a sinking feeling, but he'd only _been_ with the Weasleys and his friends. He poured obsessively through all the details he could remember, but whatever had happened, he had honestly not noticed a thing. Perhaps, an invisible assailant?

With the bud of a plan in his mind, Harry settled down for the night to sleep.


	14. A Victim of Circumstance

Harry awoke the next morning with a firm goal in his mind, and the determination to see it through immediately.

He wandered down to breakfast after Ron, Neville and Hermione, and broached the subject with them easily, bluntly.

He turned to Ron as he reached over for the bacon. "Hey mate, have you seen a diary like this?"

Ron glanced at the little black book that Harry slapped down on the table. Harry had conjured it carefully before he left the tower, just now. "Morning Harry. Nope. Why?"

"No reason," Harry turned to his left. "Nev?"

"Not me either, I'm afraid."

"Hermione?"

"Sorry Harry. Lavender has one, but it's purple." There. Nice and easy. Harry was hugely relieved to find none of his friends gave him shifty glances or showed a guilty conscience. But Hermione continued talking. "Does this have anything to do with that book you burned last night?"

"Uh, no," Harry replied, and slipped it back into his pocket. "Not at all. Nope, totally different book." He smiled widely at Hermione, at least partly in relief that none of them were possessed, and hoped she believed his lies.

There, three potential suspects easily crossed off his list. He glanced around the table.

Percy was somewhat disturbed shortly thereafter when Harry made a point of moving to sit with the older boy, to try the same trick.

"So, Percy," Harry began completely non-confrontationally. "I don't suppose you have any _correspondence_ you wish to share with me?"

"I beg your pardon?" Harry's sharp gaze missed nothing, and when he noted Percy's nervous twitch and darting eyes, he pulled out the fake diary and then stayed to ask more.

Harry leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "Any _new experiences_ that perhaps you've been keeping to yourself?"

Worryingly, Percy seemed flustered, eyeing the diary with some alarm. "No, no, not at all. What makes you think that? Just the usual study, I have to say, Harry. Er…why? Do you know something?"

Harry shared a significant glance with the older boy and raised an eyebrow significantly.

"Well," he said, speaking soft enough that only Percy could hear him at the loud and boisterous breakfast table, "there's knowing and then there's _knowing_, of course. What are you willing to share?"

Percy fiddled with his fork for a moment, and somehow dropped his scrambled egg back onto the plate.

Harry was feeling more and more concerned. "Percy? You know I'll help you out if I can, right?"

"Goodness," Percy muttered, clumsily reaching out to take a sip of juice. "Goodness, I must confess you have caught me somewhat by surprise, Harry."

Harry frowned in concern. "I've had a feeling something's up for a while now," he insinuated, rather not wanting to spread panic throughout Hogwarts at the thought of Lord Voldemort possessing a student. "I wouldn't want you to feel isolated or alone, if you need help."

Percy glanced at him with surprise. "Oh, that's right. You did have your own _special circumstances_ earlier this year, didn't you?"

Harry couldn't quite remember _which _special circumstance of his he had told Percy about. He'd kept Dobby's visit a secret, the Weasleys hadn't been posting him food this timeline, no one knew about the Basilisk yet...

"Sure," he agreed vaguely, moving the conversation along. "Look, are things going alright for you?"

Percy took a quick glance up and down the Gryffindor table, and then turned to Harry cautiously.

"Do you think now is really the right time and place?"

"You have a point." Harry agreed, repocketing the diary. "Perhaps, later today?"

* * *

When lunch time came around, Harry and Percy both avoided the Great Hall, instead pinching some food straight from the kitchens and settling down to eat in an empty classroom on the second floor.

Percy looked surprisingly comfortable sprawled on the dusty, cold stone floor, and it struck Harry all over again that he was older than Percy, mentally speaking. Beneath all his pomposity and responsibility, Percy was really just a kid.

Harry's heart went out to him a little bit more.

But Percy, to Harry's surprise, breached the topic first. "I was somewhat astonished when you approached me over breakfast this morning, Harry," Percy admitted, licking crumbs off his fingers. "I really had been under the impression that my actions have been rather…discrete."

Harry hastened to reassure the poor kid. "I think I'm the only one who's noticed," he admitted kindly. "I'm in something of a special situation myself."

Percy grinned that surprising, lop-sided grin of his again. It transformed his face. "I had suspected as much when we had that discussion in September," he shared.

Harry paused in the chewing of his own smoked chicken sandwich to think, and then swallowed hastily. The sandwich seemed to scratch his throat on the way down. "Oh? We spoke about it? I…I honestly don't remember the conversation."

Percy shrugged. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say we alluded to it."

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Wow. I didn't realise I'd given that much away. I'm glad I can trust you with…well, you know."

After checking that his hands were clean, Percy leaned over and ruffled Harry's hair much as he always did to Ron.

"Anytime, Harry." Then Percy paused awkwardly and continued. "So I – I do hope I'm not overstepping my bounds here – I assume you would like some advice, then?"

"…What's that?"

To Harry's astonishment, Percy didn't seem worried about the diary at all. In fact, to Harry's incredulous confusion, Percy seemed worried about _him_.

"My deepest apologies," Percy muttered, and Harry's disbelieving eyes watched as the older boy flushed a deep, deep red and…were his hands _fluttering_?

Sweet Merlin, Harry realised with horror, something was seriously wrong with Percy.

"My deepest apologies," Percy repeated, "but I realised…I began to believe that something was wrong on the train to Hogwarts this year."

Harry practically snapped to attention. The boy had finally reached the point.

"I…when you called me to help with Hermione's…er, little problem, and I realised that, in fact, you did not realise…of course, it really isn't my place to say…"

Once again, Harry was lost. He wasn't quite sure how this led to Percy finding the diary – had Hermione had it? Harry suddenly panicked.

But Percy continued speaking, blinking very fast and rubbing his hands on his knees while he did so. "Look, Harry. I really am very honoured you came to me with this problem, so I will do my best. Look," Percy finally met Harry's eyes, "just to give me a starting point: you said you were raised by your aunt and uncle? Are you close?"

Harry blinked at the segue. "Er…normal," he blurted. "Like, not close really, no. I wouldn't say that, but um…not in a weird way, just a normal way. A normal, not close way. You see?"

The stone floor seemed very hard and cold to Harry at that moment, and he shifted awkwardly as he sat. Strangely, despite being about to find out about the diary, he felt very uncomfortable. Harry wondered if he had mayonnaise caught on his lip, and spent some time trying to scrub it off.

For some reason, Percy seemed to deflate a little. "Right, the beginning then. Okay…"

Harry realised that Percy was probably finding the conversation hard, and did his best to settle in and support the boy.

Percy began. "Well, I don't know what it's like with muggles, but…uh…when witches and wizards decided that they like each other very much, they…um…can decide to get to know each other better."

Harry stared.

Percy clarified. "Physically, I mean. Oh dear, I am not doing this very well at all, am I?"

Harry was out of his depth. "Uh…do your best?"

"Thanks. Right, well, when a witch and a wizard decide to know each other better, uh, they need to know that…um, their bodies are different."

As if from a great distance, Harry began to realise that there had been a terrible misunderstanding.

"A wizard," continued Percy, his face growing more red and tinging towards purple, "a wizard, um – how's your herbology? – a wizard has a stamen, and might eventually, if he decides he likes the witch very much, he might decide he wants to pollinate her, uh, pistil."

Mortified, Harry could not utter a word.

"Uh, the mechanics are pretty simple to figure out, I'm sure your dormmates can loan you some books in a couple of years," Percy continued, staring fixedly at a distant spot on the ceiling. "But this is where it is important to know that male and female bodies are different."

"…" Harry might have squeaked, a very small and uncomfortable noise. But Percy was too wrapped up in his arduous task to notice. He had heard about the mechanics, of course. He didn't really think he needed anything more from Percy, but to Harry's dismay, Percy was dedicated to his task.

"If the, er, witch's pistil receives her wizard's, um, pollen, then it is possible for fertilization to occur."

Harry wished a sudden earthquake would erupt and swallow the castle. Or perhaps Voldemort, he thought with sudden hope, Voldemort liked attacking, didn't he?

To Harry's everlasting dismay, Percy appeared to be still only starting. "Uh, so the witch's body needs to, erm, prepare for fertilization and as such, um, has a process under which it goes – you're sure your uncle never told you any of this? Your aunt, maybe?"

Wordlessly, Harry shook his head.

Percy swallowed hard. "It's closely related with the lunar cycle, and um…some very feminine small magics…Arithmancy is very useful for predicting this too!" Percy added brightly, before, "So, er, in Hermione's case, for example, her body was ready for, um, fertilization – you'll never tell her I told you this, will you?"

Harry's face drained of blood. "Merlin no!"

"Thank Morgana," Percy muttered, then fixed his gaze back on that spot on the ceiling. Harry distantly noticed he was still rubbing his hands nervously on his knees.

Harry identified. He himself was currently suffering from an auditory illusion that there was an oncoming train. The thunderous rushing sound was growing louder and louder, and Percy's voice was drifting towards from very far away.

"So, um, her body was ready for fertilization, but – obviously – Hermione has not yet – _ohsweetMerlin_ – um, isn't pregnant," Percy blurted, "so her body was, um, preparing for another lunar cycle of, er, preparation."

Harry wished vaguely that a Basilisk under the school was the worst thing to happen to him this year.

"Blood!" Percy blurted. "It involves blood. Just don't ask me about that bit, okay?"

He swallowed again, forcefully, and continued. "Uh, she…was caught by surprise, and – I always did think there needed to be better education about this for muggleborns – um, it being her first experience with…things – that's why she was panicking in the end, she was unprepared for anything – and because of this process, a wizard has to be aware of some facts before he, uh, becomes acquainted with a witch in a, um, carna– _physical_," Percy rushed to say, "a physical way."

Somewhere deep in his mind, beyond the mindless internal screaming, Harry wondered how he had never learned any of this when he was still dating Ginny. Of course, there had been jokes, of course, about that 'time of month', and strange emotional shifts. He had somehow taken to mean that deep in their souls, women identified with the viciousness of werewolves.*1

He knew Ginny and Hermione quite well, by that stage, and both of them could be ferocious when they wanted to be. It had seemed like harmless humour at the time.

But Percy was relentlessly continuing to enlighten him.

"And emotionally, of course, because of these, this process, and, um, the symptoms of this process," Percy was choosing his words slowly, and with great care, "a wizard needs to be gentle and uh, delicate when dealing with a witch's sensitivities because quite frankly, we're a bit daft about them sometimes and I've been told we miss a lot.

"It is possible for a wizard's, uh, stamen to, erm, reach a witch's pistil without…give me a moment, um…without any pollen reaching the…Look, you can just…Fertilization can be avoided if you're careful, alright? I'll…I'll write you a note, okay? I'll find you the spells."

Percy sighed heavily.

"And the potions too. You can take potions a few hours before...um...pollination if you don't want your...the, um, pollen to...to fertilize anything. Penelope – the prefect who eventually solved Hermione's little problem? – she's my girlfriend, which you know about obviously and, well, I've found that exchanging letters is a good way to get to know her without blurting out thoughtless things that, quite frankly, young wizards often do. I, err, don't recommend you ask about this stuff early on in your relationship. You know, if you're thinking about it. Just don't."

Absolutely desperately, Harry searched for words to interrupt this torture.

Percy continued. "In regards to your own situation, well – I really can't say for sure, but I'd suggest that you take things very slowly and show your young witch a lot of respect. You're very young of course, so you can take some things very slowly indeed, and being who you are there is a lot of potential for being taken advantage of." Harry was almost amused to find that, as Percy met his eyes, the older boy was equally desperate for his mouth to stop moving. "Dare I, can I confirm, Harry, that you are not dating an older witch? You're very young, and I know their, um, endowments can be enchanting…" Percy closed his eyes in absolute horror. "Oh Merlin, ah, so when a witch or wizard wants to attract a partner, it is possible for them to use actual enchantments, um, for example, there is –"

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Harry finally managed. He pulled the conjured diary out of his robe pocket and dropped it in front of the lobster-red Percy. "Have you ever seen a diary like this?"

Percy blinked and stared at the little black book in front of him, mouth working silently for a while. "Not at all," he finally managed. "Is this how you communicate with her?"

"Thank Maeve, Morgana and Merlin," Harry uttered, with what was possibly the most feeling he had ever expressed. "I really think that's enough information for now, Percy," he rushed out, catching the older boy before he began speaking more of that vile torture.

"No, no, you've been magnificent," Harry assured Percy. "I've, ugh, learned so much! Thank you, really." Harry scrambled to his feet and inched awkwardly towards the door. "It's really all feeling so overwhelming," Harry admitted to Percy as he backed slowly away. "I think I need some time to, yes, to think about it on my own."

Percy looked pathetically hopeful. "You think?"

"Definitely!" Harry shot out. "Very overwhelming. I definitely need some time to process this, um, on my own. Without hearing more." Harry nodded. "Definitely without hearing more just yet. I'll…I'll just be going then, yeah?"

He dashed out the door.

* * *

Oliver Wood, of all people, came up to Harry the next Saturday with a look of deep apprehension on his face.

"Look, Potter, are you okay?" the Keeper asked with rough concern in his voice.

"What? Yup! Fine!" Harry grinned, and skittered two steps back just in case Wood decided to share any personal insights into 'pollination'. He grasped his broom firmly between his hands, just in case Wood took any untoward steps forward towards conversation. He was year mates with Percy, wasn't he? You never knew…

The Keeper paused where he was, and looked at him carefully.

"Potter?" He tried again, "Is your head in the game? You've been staring at our Chasers for a solid ten minutes without blinking, and Madam Hooch is about to blow the whistle."

Startled, Harry refocused his eyes and looked around him. Katie, Alicia, and Angelica were all looking back at him in some concern and defensiveness. Alicia had her arms crossed in front of her chest. Harry had the most horrible impression he had just been very rude.

He blinked, and his astonishingly dry eyes felt scratchy and painful.

"Mmm," Harry's brain rebooted, and his gaze roved slowly around the Quidditch pitch. Distant cheering and boos sounded in his ears, and Harry suddenly realised that the wind was fresh and snapping.

The spectators were in the stands. He was on the pitch.

"Okay now?" Wood tried again, and looked reassured when Harry managed to focus his eyes on him.

"Sure," Harry spoke apologetically.

Wood raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Look, we'll be relying on you for this game," he spoke quietly, and stepped closer to Harry so that their teammates couldn't hear. "Fred and George have been off form for a while, so expect the Slytherin's Beaters to have a real impact on our girls."

Harry shot an evaluative eye towards the looming Slytherin team, who did indeed look very intimidating.

"We'll need a short game," Oliver pushed on. "You reckon you can give that to us?"

"I got it." Harry nodded reassuringly, and clenched his jaw. He needed this win, Harry thought manfully. He'd been out of it for days – Hermione also kept complaining he was staring at her, and Neville had mentioned something about Harry's eyes being the reason Ginny was less coordinated than usual – so a rousing game of Quidditch was just what he needed.

Oliver Wood accepted Harry's words at face value, backing away with only a remnant of worry remaining, before he turned to talk to the Chasers. Harry must have zoned out all through the pep-talk, he realised with resignation. No wonder Wood was worried about him.

The Madam Hooch was standing there, her robes fluttering in the breeze, whistle in her mouth, and they were off.

* * *

For about seventeen glorious minutes in the air, Harry forgot all about his problems, time pressures, and the deathly threat hanging over Hogwarts' entire student body.

He was up in the air, his arm muscles straining as he took his broomstick through tight corners and a couple of test dives just to get his game-sense in. Cold, damp wind rushed through Harry's hair.

If felt like freedom from all the pressure Harry had faced for years. It was glorious.

Below him, unfortunately, the Gryffindor team was not doing as well as he was. The Chasers, Katie, Angelina, and Alicia, were doing their best; their teamwork was as amazing as always, but the Slytherin Beaters were coming on strong and had a very physical presence on the pitch.

Although Gryffindor rapidly scored four goals, Slytherin was keeping the score very close, and the only thing stopping the green and silver team from racing ahead in points was the magnificence that was Oliver Wood.

Despite looking for the snitch, Harry was once again impressed at Wood's skill and passion for the game. If anyone, he pondered as he searched the pitch in his Seeker patterns, deserved to go professional in the Quidditch league, it was Oliver Wood.

Then the bludgers happened.

Harry ducked the first one, automatically, just as he always did, as it hooned away from the quaffle-catchers and spun out towards him instead.

When it changed directions and came charging back at him, Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach, and within ten minutes Harry was battling for his life with the Weasley twins orbiting around him like comets.

"What the heck?" asked one Weasley twin, moving to receive the bludger and smashing it with all his might down towards the game below.

"I don't get it," the other mumbled, as it reversed course on its own and came shooting back towards Harry.

"Got it," Weasley on the left bellowed and Harry took advantage of the gap in the air to shoot forward a few feet and scan the pitch for the snitch again.

"Incoming!" It didn't sound like either of the twins, but Harry heard a whistle close to his ear, and sped up and spun with finesse just to miss the barrelling metal ball that shot through the space where he had been. Then he swore, because the other bludger was already with the Beaters behind him, and now there were two deadly hunks of metal trying to knock him out of the air.

This was worse than he had expected.

Now he had six satellites revolving chaotically around him: two bludgers, two Weasleys, and two Slytherin Beaters who looked baffled to be spending so much time with Harry Potter of Gryffindor.

"Right," Harry muttered absently, feeling intensely alive as the adrenaline flushed through his system. "Okay. Right."

After the fact, spectators of the day said it was the most exciting flying seen at Hogwarts in living memory. The contributions of his teammates were barely ever mentioned, even though without the beaters' interference, the Gryffindor chasers scored goal after goal.

Occasionally, Harry would flash past Malfoy – his first Quidditch game, the poor fool – and he always looked slightly stunned and horrified as Harry's entourage would then barrel by in Harry's wake: Two bludgers, fast and powerful, ignoring every other player on the field except Harry; two Weasleys, who despite their recent bad form had no need for good coordination. Instead, they only needed to watch for each bludger to reach maximum distance from Harry, and then insert themselves between Harry and the approaching projectile. Even the two Slytherin Beaters ended up working hard to protect Harry from the barrelling balls. Not on purpose, of course, but they persistently tried to send the bludgers down towards where the Gryffindor chasers were still scoring, and so they raced after Harry too.

Harry was resolutely glad that he was as little and light as he was for this game. Avoiding the chaos in his wake was hard enough, but he still hadn't given up his search for the snitch. He had to use all his speed and manoeuvrability to keep the space ahead of him clear.

Zipping past Wood at high speed, he motioned for the boy not to call for a time out. Harry was fine: he was focused, he was engaged, he was feeling better than he had in months – just on the edge of life and death, feeling the thrill.

He wondered if this was how his father and Sirius had felt when they fought Death Eaters. An idle thought flittered past his mind: this explained so much about Sirius.

Harry shot past a gaggle of teachers at the base of the stands, looking worried. Harry nodded significantly their way.

Occasionally, just to add to his team unity, Harry rode straight through the cluster of Slytherin Chasers whenever they happened to grab the quaffle. The cluster of chaos in his wake never failed to disrupt their passes.

It required incredible focus, managing so many things at once, but Harry felt the thrill in his bones and felt magnificent.

Then he saw that glint of gold.

It wasn't really fair for Malfoy. Harry felt guilty as he changed directions ever so slightly and dove straight towards the snitch. The poor kid had been out of his depth from the moment the budgers had focused on Harry.

It wasn't how a game of Quidditch was supposed to work, Harry admitted, as he stretched his arm out for the snitch, robes flapping in the wind.

Behind him, he heard Malfoy's yelp as he identified that his dive wasn't a feint, but he was far too late.

Harry was used to fighting for his life: all Malfoy had signed up for was a school game of Quidditch, and this wasn't what had been advertised.

Harry's arm reached full extension, his fingers grasped tightly around the fluttering snitch – it also seemed overwhelmed, the poor thing; it wasn't calibrated for professional speeds – and Harry turned into a dive that would take him right to the feet of the alert teacher group.

They saw him coming, their wands were drawn and Harry timed his dive perfectly so the bludgers behind him had to slow down to avoid plunging into the ground.

Harry flashed past, snitch clutched tightly in half a palm while he used both hands to force his broom handle up. The bludgers slowed to take the corner.

Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape drew quickly: a bunch of spells shot out.

The two cursed bludgers exploded; Harry held the snitch upright; the beaters behind him pulled up more moderately as Harry tumbled gently off his broom.

The crowd roared.

* * *

To Harry's somewhat naive astonishment, life in the castle was disrupted for days.

Someone, probably Luna, had written a very complimentary article for the Quibbler describing the game, and heavily focusing on Harry's part in it. It was accompanied by photos: Harry suspected Colin Creevey as the most likely contributor, although he wasn't aware they knew each other.

But that would have been the end of it if a dozen fan letters from people at the game hadn't mailed the Daily Prophet with letters to the editor.

Percy had discovered them first, naturally, despite him and Harry avoiding each other, sensitively, for a few days. But he had brought it to Ron's attention, who took great delight in reading snippets out loud at the breakfast table and cutting out clips to scrapbook, of all things.

"I'll be your first fan," Ron proclaimed loudly when Harry bemoaned the action. "You will play for the Cannons, won't you Harry?"

Harry was touched that the thought of being his fan had never occurred to Ron before this moment.

"I don't know…" Harry demurred.

Ron shrugged his shoulders cheerfully. "It's okay mate, I'll be your first fan no matter where you play. Merlin, look at this one: _All the speed and grace of a falcon at hunt_, eh? How'd you feel now, Harry?"

Harry buried his head in his hands, and Ron laughed. "I'll be your very best fan, Harry. No mistake. I'll save up my money and buy all your merchandise. This will be great!"

Harry looked up from his place on the table, eyeing Ron from between his fingers. "You don't need to be my first fan Ron," Harry whinged childishly. "You're my best mate already."

Ron was startled. "Eh? Your best mate? Me?"

"Well, yeah."

Ron beamed. "Hear that, Nev? I'm best mates with Harry! Harry thinks I'm his best mate!"

Neville pounded Ron heartily on the back. "Good on you, mate."

Ron even turned to Hermione. "I'm best mates with Harry!"

She smiled too.

Harry wasn't quite sure what the fuss was all about, but he hoped the worst was over.

It wasn't.

The influx of fan letters had obviously intrigued the _Prophet_, because the next day the paper came out with the original article in it: the front page spread covered the whole game, a full three columns were analyses of Harry's part in it, and a second page was a summary of the investigation into the cursed quaffles.

Somehow they even got hold of more original photographs, which were displayed on a full-page spread inside.

People were stopping him in the corridors.

Malfoy was one of them.

"Look, Potter." The Slytherin caught him one day when he was walking the corridors alone and tugged Harry to a halt by the corner of his sleeve. "I hope you know it wasn't me, okay?"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked.

Malfoy looked at him meaningfully "The bludgers. I know I was the rival Seeker in that game, but I swear I never wanted to curse you."

Harry glanced up and down the mostly empty corridors and smiled at a few curious students passing by. "I could have guessed that."

Malfoy didn't calm down. "Potter, really," he insisted. "I know people are saying I bought my way on to the team, but I'd never try to curse you out of the sky to win."

Harry looked at the kid – just a second-year – and nodded, calmingly. "I get it. You're okay. I believe you."

Malfoy looked conflicted. "You do?"

Harry took a long moment to seriously think about the position Draco Malfoy must be in now. He thought about buying or not buying his way onto the team. He also considered how Malfoy was the only second year on the team. Slowly he drew his wand and cast a silent little _muffliato._

Harry shuffled a little closer to Malfoy in the corridor, and hesitantly suggested. "I really do believe you, but perhaps if you need to suggest otherwise to…certain other people…"

"I…what?" Malfoy looked at him in surprise.

"You and I have had this little conversation," Harry suggested cautiously. "But if, theoretically, you might need to…imply differently to others, I could be convinced to stay quiet about it."

"I…" Malfoy stared at him measuringly. "That would be convenient, actually."

Harry relaxed and grinned. "That's great then. We'll do that."

Curiously, inquisitively, Malfoy stared at Harry's face as they stepped further apart. "That advice you gave me earlier in the year has been very helpful too, while we're on the topic."

"Defence?"

"Yeah. I had no idea things could get so bad. My father's furious."

Harry grinned again. "If you manage to dig up any dirt on him, send it my way. I've got something in the works that doesn't rely on a Board of Governors' consensus."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows appraisingly and crossed his arms boldly. "You're not the simple Gryffindor you portray to the world, are you now?"

Harry smirked and made to move away. "You do what comes naturally, Malfoy, and so will I." Surprisingly, Harry felt no concerns about being shot in the back when he sauntered away, leaving Malfoy staring at his back.

* * *

The fuss travelled to all his classes, to a greater or lesser extent, and even disrupted his time spent with Luna as they looked for a new club to belong to.

Harry regretted suggesting the Runes club.

He'd been genuinely interested, as a matter of fact. He was definitely going to pick up Runes as soon as he could, just to vary his schooling a little, and a small taster seemed to be a brilliant idea.

Luna, Harry vaguely remembered, could already read runes so it seemed like the club would suit her too.

However, once they walked in the Runes classroom, with Professor Babbling talking animatedly to a cluster of students at the blackboard, things were obviously not going to work out.

"Harry Potter!" a number of enthusiastic quidditch fans cried out, and the instructions were interrupted by seven older students dashing over to Harry to ask about his future plans, and his quidditch broom, and did he have a girlfriend yet?

Luna was, to Harry's dismay, physically elbowed out of the way and ended up standing on the very corner of the crowd.

She didn't look like she minded much, but Harry did on her behalf. He tried to interrupt the crowd a number of times.

Harry tried a number of times to push through the crowd to reach Luna, and when that didn't work, he tried to force his way – gently – through to the front of the classroom where Professor Babbling stood with a complicated look on her face.

"'Scuse me," Harry tried, taking a tiny step towards the chalk scented blackboard. "Do you mind?"

The crowd moved with him. Did his scar hurt? Did he remember his parents? Somehow the news had spread that James Potter had been a quidditch star, and did he get his talent from his parents? Was he going to try for a place in the English team?

"I'm here about runes," Harry said loudly to nobody in particular, which might have explained why nobody paid him any attention.

When he regrouped with Luna a long while later, all she would say was that the students seemed to be limited to third years and up. Harry got the impression she hadn't been made welcome at all.

"We'll keep trying," Harry reassured her. "We'll find a good club where you're happy next time. You should choose where we try next."

Harry hoped that peak chaos had passed, and his year would improve from hereon.

* * *

*1 For real now, who on earth would have given Harry the _Talk_ about female puberty? The poor kid has had to figure it out from clues.


	15. Coping with Consequences

Neville found Harry a few days later huddled over a table in the library, staring at his study notes with a terrifying blank gaze. With dim light from an overcast day seeping palely through the windows, it was the wall sconces that cast a flicker of light and shadow over Harry's very vacant face.

"Harry?" Neville asked, concerned. "Harry? Are you okay?"

Harry himself had other things on his mind and didn't respond, not even a twitch.

Neville furrowed his brows and leaned forward, hesitantly tapping Harry on the shoulder. When that didn't work, he shook Harry gently.

"Harry?"

Harry's head wobbled a little with the force, but he still didn't even blink.

Neville shook a bit harder. "Harry? Oi, Harry? Should I get someone? Would Hermione help?"

As if he was rousing from a deep sleep, Harry's face twitched and came alive again. He eyelashes fluttered and slowly he began to recollect his bearings. Finally his gaze landed on Neville. After a moment, recognition dawned in his face and he jerked more alert.

"Nev! Hi, what's up?"

Somewhat reassured about Harry's state, Neville slid cautiously into a chair opposite Harry. "Are you okay, mate? You were looking awfully blank just now."

Harry huffed another deep sigh. "Dobby."

"…What?"

"Oh." Harry remembered that he hadn't told Neville much about his secrets. "I have a secret admirer, I suppose you could say."

Neville nodded thoughtfully. "I would have thought you'd had a few, at the rate you're going."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't get me started. Besides, that's half the problem. With all these people stopping me in the corridors, asking for autographs, talking me between classes, all the owl post and presents…" he trailed off. "I'd completely forgotten that I've got a bunch of other stuff going on!"

Neville's confused brown eyes moved from Harry's face to his study notes and back again. "Exams are a long time away, Harry."

Harry shrivelled up a little on the inside. "I know. That's a part of it too, honestly. I've got plans for next year, and they hinge on exams so the pressure's already getting to me. But the people are distractions – and so I'd forgotten I had something important to do this week!"

Finding and eliminating Tom Riddle's diary had to happen before he killed the Basilisk, in the end. That was vital.

But even if he found the diary, fixing the Basilisk had to wait until he'd solved the issue with Dobby, because if something was magicked up to 'protect' Harry that he wasn't expecting, then everything could be over before it began.

Which was also very worrying, because Harry had forgotten his problems might be caused by Dobby in the first place, and he'd also forgotten about the diary under the overwhelming pressure of his momentary fame.

"My memory's like a sieve," Harry complained. Defeatedly, he took off his glasses and polished them on a corner of his robe. His whole time-travel plan was in jeopardy because of his thoughtless ways. "I can't afford to forget things, Neville!"

Neville, not privy to Harry's internal monologue, asked cautiously, "Lovegood's new club?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders as he replaced his glasses. "That's been hard going too, actually. All the people are following me around and poor Luna's been ignored even worse than usual. Did you know we tried to audition for the choir on Monday? It was terrible. People kept ignoring Flitwick to talk to me instead."

Neville grimaced sympathetically.

Harry continued his tirade. "I can't go anywhere without people noticing me! Our classmates haven't been too bad, actually – I guess they've had the chance to see me around. But all these older students – and some of the first-years, goodness but they're eager – they've realised that I'm not handing out autographs so they're coming at me with cameras and I have things to do and plans to make and people to see – Hermione says I have to write thank you notes for the presents – and I can't seem to remember the important things so everything's going wrong and I'm really tired, Neville!"

Poor Neville looked quite concerned as Harry's voice rose.

"Lockhart's been horrible," Harry admitted, head in hands. "He keeps trying to take me aside for 'advice' or 'words of wisdom', or whatever he wants to call it. He'd like to teach me to 'manage my fame'," Harry sighed, "as if I don't already have too much. He actually owled a reporter to give a 'double interview - just the two of us', you know?"

Neville shuddered.

"And I couldn't turn it down because I need the press on my side, but I'm horrible at interviews and I felt like a fraud! I had to stand there and smile and pretend it was all such an honour. I have strong opinions about Rita Skeeter, you know? I have things to do – important things, Nev! And I'm running really tight on time and I don't want anyone to get hurt but there's all these things to think about and I didn't expect to get so famous just by playing quidditch like I usually do – I can't believe I actually forgot about Dobby so at least the bludgers have been helpful that way, but there's other stuff I need to be focussing on and people are getting in the way and I can't even slip away because everyone keeps _coming to find me_." Harry finished with a little wail.

Neville clasped his hands together, grabbed the table, rubbed his hands on his knees. "Right, well I can't help you with all of that mate; it sounds like you've got a lot of stuff going on. But what needs to be done first?"

Harry cradled his head in his hands and muttered to the table. "I don't know, let me think."

There was a pause while Harry wracked his brains. Neville, bless his heart, sat patiently waiting for Harry without uttering a sound.

"Dobby?" Harry finally ventured tentatively. "Stopping the stalking would free me up a bit to move around, and," he thought for a moment more, "the diary, probably? Because that might still take me a bit of time."

Neville stood up from the table like something had been accomplished. "Awesome then. Great job. I'll leave you to sort those things out then Harry, yeah? It sounds like you're getting things under control."

Nodding his slowly at first, and then more rapidly, Harry began gathering up his study materials and packing his satchel. "Thanks, Nev. I'll send a message to Dobby now. I think I know how to do it." House elves seemed to communicate between residences somehow, Harry had noticed. How else would Dobby think positively of him, and of Dumbledore? How else was Dobby planning to 'tell the other house elves of his greatness'? He'd talk to Pookey, that would work. "I'll sort that out now," Harry continued muttering. "I'll tell him, tell him…something. That Hogwarts is safe. That'll do it. Yup."

Neville watched Harry mutter and nod, not quite catching what Harry said.

"You do that then, mate. Good luck, eh?"

"Thanks," Harry glanced up. "I needed that pep talk, Nev. Thanks for catching me."

He strode off.

Finally Harry's mind seemed to surface from the whirling thoughts that had dragged him down. If he stopped Dobby from stalking him now, that would free him up to do other things – he'd have to figure out how to free Dobby at a later time. His plan for the Basilisk was also coming along. He'd talk to Pookey about that too, Harry decided.

He still had things under control. He was coping. Things would be alright.

That night over dinner it was announced that Marietta Edgecombe had been petrified in the girls' bathrooms on the fifth floor.

* * *

"She was caught trying to reapply her makeup," Hermione told him over breakfast the next morning. "No one seems to know who did it, or how. They're doing an extensive range of diagnostics today; I saw the specialists come into school. They think she was focused on the mirror and missed someone come up behind her."

Harry nodded silently. It was ironic that Marietta was the victim of petrification, but despite his remaining grudge against the girl, he didn't actually want anyone hurt. Now his deadline was even tighter than before. Not everyone would be as vain as Edgecombe, or spend as much time looking into mirrors.

The diary, Harry knew, had to be sorted out as soon as he could make it. He knew what he needed to focus on.

His most easily eliminated suspects excluded, Harry knew he needed to begin trying to corner Fred or George to ask them about the diary.

It was with a feeling of triumph and worry that he noticed on Tuesday and then Wednesday that they were avoiding him.

And everybody.

Indeed, the twin terrors Fred and George – possibly with the dubious support of Lee Jordan – had been the most obvious suspects who might sneak into Harry's pockets and steal an empty diary. It was only that Percy had been easier to eliminate that caused him to approach the prefect first. Harry had thought that the twins had lagged behind him that day in Diagon Alley, sneaking off to buy pranks or something, but it was possible that they had seen him shake out Ginny's school book and stolen the diary for themselves.

Although how they had managed to avoid being noticed, especially since he had been so careful with it all, he did not know.

He had thought that they were old enough to know not to trust anything magical without knowing where it kept its brain, that if one twin started acting strangely the other would pick up on it, but perhaps there were extenuating circumstances.

Harry tried to talk to them at quidditch practice, but couldn't get them alone, being blasted as they were by a very frustrated Oliver Wood.

Their teamwork was a mess, Wood was complaining. Their game had been off for ages, and it was only Harry's brilliant flying – Harry blushed and shuffled awkwardly, and tried not to think about the fallout from those bludgers – that allowed the Gryffindor team to win.

Harry hovered around them in the common room when he could, but they would break off their furious whispers whenever they saw him coming. Lee was also walking around with a frown on his face.

Harry tried to talk to them openly the day before he and Luna visited the Art Club – it was not a horrible experience, but instead of insulting Luna, people just ignored her, and it turned out that Harry couldn't do art to save his life.

He tried to talk to them the day after too, but Lee intercepted him and rushed Harry aside for some asinine conversation about quidditch commentating. When he escaped, the twins had disappeared. They stayed out of his sight all of that weekend, and Harry cursed the Marauders Map, just a little.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, almost three weeks after the quidditch game, Harry saw the terrible trio arrive at the breakfast table in an unusual manner.

Normally cheerful morning types, that morning all three troublemakers walked silently towards their regular seats, a strange distance between them. Lee Jordan strode dispiritedly between the two of them, and occasionally made little glances to the left or the right.

Harry noticed with concern that the two red-heads were grudgingly willing to share a comment or two with their mutual friend, but were consistently avoiding eye contact or conversation with each other.

Harry eyed them closely all breakfast and shadowed them back to the tower and half-way to first period. Without missing an opportunity to keep a close eye on them, Harry noticed with a shiver that the spiders were once again abandoning the castle. He renewed his attentions to the suspects at hand.

At lunch and dinner his suspicions were confirmed, and even Ron agreed, at his query, that his brothers were acting strange.

"It's probably a prank, though," Ron added through a mouthful of lamb casserole. "They used to do it to Mum, when they would pretend they weren't speaking. It gives them a right good chance to separate and do something sneaky. Do you think they did the graffiti thing?... They wouldn't have been involved in your bludger problem, would they?"

"Not at all," Harry hastened to reassure Ron. "I'm sure it's just another plan they've got to prank someone. You know what they're like."

With Harry's reassuring lies and the lure of seconds for breakfast, Ron easily dismissed their attitudes from his mind, more interested in discussing what Professor Binns had reported about the Chamber of Secrets in their earlier History of Magic class.

Harry resigned himself to keeping the twins under close observation.

* * *

He approached George later that night in the common room, on the grounds that Lee Jordan was spending slightly more time speaking to him than to Fred.

George was also, Harry was careful to notice, sitting alone in the corner usually occupied by the cheerful trio.

"Hi," said Harry, as he slunk into the chair that was usually occupied by the rowdier twin. "What's up?"

"Hi, Harry," replied George suspiciously. "You've been around a bit recently. What do you want?"

Harry paused for a moment in consternation. "Well, that was blunt. Mind if I return the favour?"

"Whatever," George said sullenly. "Not like I've any better place to be."

"I noticed," Harry began delicately, "that something is wrong with you and your brother. Is everything..." He trailed off leadingly.

"Percy?" George batted his eyes innocently, "No weirder than normal. Why?"

"With Fred, you prat," Harry responded. "Don't hide it. Even Ron's noticed."

"Ugh," George twitched his head. "We're good, thanks mate. No problems. Lee's working with him now." He began to shuffle his clutter together on the desk before him. "In fact, I should go too. No worries, Harry." He balanced everything precariously in his arms, and stood to leave.

Harry's arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder. If emotional support was not going to work, Harry thought with a mental sigh, he would have to try guilt.

"I only ask because I've recently lost something important myself," he began with a soulful look. "A very important diary of mine has gone missing. I figured that you might be troubled by a related problem."

George froze at his words. Harry only noticed as his hand was still on the red-head's shoulder.

"A diary, you say? Have you looked everywhere?" George tried.

Harry smirked knowingly. "Yes. I found a similar-looking book, black cover and all, but it was missing certain enchantments and is clearly a second-rate fake. Perhaps you could help me?"

George allowed himself to be drawn back into his seat.

"Perhaps," he offered, slightly flustered, "you dropped it somewhere on Diagon Alley?"

"What makes you suggest Diagon Alley? You're not functioning at your best now, are you?" Harry released his hand in triumph. His playful demeanour turned serious. "I mean it, George. I need it back, or your trouble's going to get worse."

"What do you know about our trouble?" George demanded.

Harry sat back with a sigh. "Let me guess. Does your problem with Fred have something to do with him keeping secrets from you? Possibly related to his disappearance at the Hallowe'en feast? Whatever he's telling you about where he went, you think he's lying? He's looking pale? There are times when he almost tells you something, but he's refusing to come out with it?"

"What do you know about that?" George snapped. "You weren't at the feast either."

"I asked around, you git," Harry snarked back. "I'm right, aren't I. You guys filched the diary off me, and now it's giving you problems."

George, with a flustered glance at the nearby tables, lowered his voice but spoke directly. "You've got no proof," he blustered.

"I know far more about the diary than you," Harry shot back. "I'm telling you, that's what's causing everything. Aren't you worried about your brother?"

Reluctantly, George settled back in the chair.

"You took it from Ginny," he muttered with a scowl. "We only took it back."

Harry raked his hands through his hair, then craned his head to rub his sore neck carefully. He fought back a frustrated sigh.

"I took it away from her because it was stuck there by Lucius Malfoy!" He snarled. "Would you trust a man like that with your little sister's best interests?"

George jerked at Harry's words, and cast his mind back over his memory of the day. Harry watched as he remembered that Malfoy senior had been there, acting strange with Mr Weasley and weirdly polite. He reluctantly allowed Harry to argue him down, and shortly thereafter rose and brought back Lee Jordan to listen to Harry's argument too. Unsurprisingly, Lee had not been with Fred, but doing his own thing with some homework.

Eventually, they both agreed to return the diary.

"But I don't necessarily believe you," George dissembled. "It's only that I think since you've figured out our prank you probably deserve it back."

"Uh huh," Harry was unconvinced, but willing to let it slide with the return of the diary. "Will Fred agree to give it back too?"

He watched in bemusement as George and Lee plotted out their approach, and followed them up to the fourth-year boy's dorm,

"How'd you do it, anyway?" Harry inquired curiously as they climbed the stairs of the tower. "That fake you gave me was a pretty good one, but if you did it before we got back to the Burrow – you did, didn't you? – then you must have done it in no time at all."

George and Lee smirked at each other. "It's a little-known fact, Harrikins," George explained somewhat pompously and somehow bearing an alarming resemblance to Percy, "that that infamous Ministry Trace is totally confused by the close presence of an adult wizard or high levels of ambient magic."

Harry nodded. He knew that; Percy had researched it too. He supposed that it didn't come as a surprise that the twins had figured something out as well.

Indeed, he had been prepared to use that fact to his advantage ever since he first came back to redo the timeline.

George glanced up. "You already knew? Huh. Well, anyway, Diagon Alley is bustling. No problems at all as long as no one notices you whip out a wand. We use magic at home all through the holidays too, making all of our prank stuff."

Harry was startled, then nodded again in understanding. Knowing their deviousness, it made sense they were making more than simple potions explosions up in their bedroom.

"I thought that was why you do potions?" Harry wrinkled his eyebrows. "Since potions are also not covered by the Trace?"

"A false front," George admitted. "So no one realises we also do spell-work. We have to do _something_ suspicious over the holidays or Mum'll realise we're hiding something. And we can't be seen to do spell-work, or she'll take our wands."

Then they reached the dormitory, and Harry stood back to listen while George and Lee argued the reluctant Fred down.

"Fine, fine," Fred finally threw up his hands. "You all win." He turned around and practically climbed inside his battered school trunk, head and shoulders deep under the lid.

Huffing somewhat, he popped his head back up and turned around to Harry, the familiar diary clutched in his hands. "Here you go." The book was crushed lightly against Harry's chest. "You win, good job proving it was us." Fred ruffled Harry's hair and backed off.

Harry grabbed it delicately between his fingers, still using his robe hem as skin protection, and drew his wand from inside his mokeskin pouch.

"_Finite_," Harry tapped the cover of the book and watched without surprise at it faded into nothingness in his hand. "The real one, please," he asked Fred. "I guess that's how you got me in Diagon Alley, right? Although I'm surprised you knew that spell. _Geminio _is well beyond fourth year, isn't it? And you just did it silently?"

"We took it as a personal challenge," George replied, shooting a strange glance at his twin. "Being gemini – or twins – ourselves. What were you doing, Fred?"

His sullen brother reluctantly pulled out another diary from within his school robes and watched as Harry attempted the _finite _incantation again, this time without success.

Harry, feeling the need for further confirmation of the diary, immediately set it on fire.

"Oi!" three voices cried, as then subsided in amazement as the fire fizzled out immediately.

Fred continued to bluster. "What d'you think you're trying to do, eh?"

"Just checking." Harry quirked an eyebrow at Fred, who shuffled a little in embarrassment. He closed the book and looked up. "What were you doing with it, anyway?"

Fred looked at Harry as if he was offended, and even George and Lee drew themselves up. "We were trying to discover its secrets, of course!" Fred replied. "You see, we have this...uh..." he subsided in confusion as his brother and friend shot him angry glances, but Harry had already followed the logic.

"Oh," he said, suddenly understanding everything. Harry looked carefully around the dorm room, just to make sure that there were no other four-years hidden behind bed curtains or furniture. The cluttered, slightly musty room was empty except for Harry and the three older boys he was speaking to.

"Of course. Listen," he offered the other boys as he turned to leave the room. "Moony, Padfoot and Prongs are totally different to Tom Riddle. The map is fine, mostly harmless," Harry smiled in nostalgia, "I'll even help you make a new one if you'd like. I know a guy who knows someone. But do me a favour and research Tom Riddle, and then you'll understand why you should stay well away from him."

Harry clutched the diary Horcrux tightly in his hand as turned to take two steps away. Then he turned back. "Ah…Wormtail, I can't tell you too much about him," Harry admitted. "He might be listening. Just be careful what you speak in front of, okay?"

Then he left them standing in stunned silence as he rapidly clattered down the stairs and climbed straight into the security of the third compartment of his trunk.

* * *

Harry sat on the floor of his compartment, the one he was beginning to think of as his secret headquarters.

It was where he kept everything relating to his plans, after all.

It had filled up recently: a pile of presents from fans in the corner. The unwrapped ones he'd sent thank you notes for. There were only about twenty or more to go through. He'd been getting good practice with Mr Weasley's curse-breaking spells while he was at it, although the _Occuluseo_ spell didn't work that well in Hogwarts or his trunk compartment. Fortunately, almost nothing had been spelled against him.

The Vanishing Cabinet had been joined by its fellow too, which Harry had wrestled into his trunk late one night. If there was a security breach, he had realised, he had to fix that post-haste.

The innocuous-looking diary Horcrux lay alone in the middle of his now-cluttered space, and Harry ran through a checklist of things he needed before moving on with his plan.

Wand. Always.

Broomstick. Check.

Horcrux. Check.

Invisibility Cloak? Check.

Weapons against the Basilisk? Harry had some ideas about that, and he would talk it over with Pookey. He'd sort that out tonight. And Lavender Brown, Harry realised.

That would sort things out, he thought.

But when to go?

Harry sat cross-legged, chin in hand as he pondered the last timeline the best that he could remember. It was so long ago, and things were so fuzzy his mind regardless of the Occlumency.

He had the diary, Harry reasoned, so theoretically any petrifications would stop since Fred wasn't under its control anymore. So he could wait until Christmas to go down to kill the beast.

He clambered to his feet with alacrity. Waiting for the castle to empty would be safer for the kids, they'd be less people around to keep an eye on him.

He'd sign the sheet for the Christmas holiday stayers, and sort things out at the end of term.


	16. Before the Storm

The Christmas holidays finally came around, and with them, some peace and quiet for Harry Potter.

His tediously long to-do list was finally under control: all the thank you notes and curse-checking completed, a couple of advertising offers turned down, two letters handed into the Department of Magical Law enforcement for some rather risqué opportunities that Harry really didn't want to think about.

He'd also finished his holiday homework early, and once again enjoyed wandering the halls of Hogwarts without hundred of eyes and whispers following his every move. The worst of the fans had gone home, of course, as had Ron, Hermione and Neville. Each of them had very kindly invited him home for the holidays, apparently being rather concerned by his own, perfectly competent plans.

"I've got stuff to catch up on," Harry had tried repeatedly to explain. "I don't want to intrude on family time."

They still felt holidaying at Hogwarts was some kind of consolation prize.

"Are your family away?" Hermione had asked curiously.

"Hrm? I don't know. Why?"

They all looked at Harry as if it was obvious. "Why aren't you going home to be with them?"

Harry realised that somehow he'd managed to avoid explaining his complex relationship with the Dursleys. "They – the magic bothers them," he grinned awkwardly. "I, uh, need to catch up on my theory and the Hogwarts library just can't be beaten."

Hermione looked intrigued. "Perhaps we should stay? You've got a point about the library...Are you thinking about exams already? Have you worked out a study timetable? Are you working on your Transfiguration again? What reference texts–"

"J-just some catch-up stuff."

Ron looked less than impressed with his plans. "Mate, are you sure you don't want to come back to the Burrow? Mum'd love to have you over again, and I think Percy, of all people, wanted to talk to you a bit abo–"

Harry had insisted, forcefully, that they spend time with their families. It was irreplaceable, after all. Not everybody had a chance to create previous family memories to treasure forever. The most famous orphan in Britain, Harry had discovered, could leverage the fact quite effectively when he needed to.

They weren't happy about it, but they went.

Around the same time of year as everyone else was packing for the Express, Harry had also noticed that his presence in the paper had died down significantly. The rehash of his parents' death, his father's gift at flying, his first few successes at Hogwarts had been publicised openly and slowly died off as other news finally took its place. Suddenly Christmas plans and presents and holidays and lost luggage became more important to think about that Harry Potter still being good on a broom.

He found himself wandering the hallways once the castle had emptied, isolated footsteps tapping through silent corridors. He always got his favourite table in the library when he went there: the older students who remained apparently had their own favourite study spots, and Harry enjoyed his own little routine that didn't involve bumping into any of them. With the castle so empty, all the people remaining sat together at the tables for meals. The small scattering of skeleton staff were generally content to huddle together at mealtimes and leave the students to sort themselves out. Harry himself ate in the kitchens for every meal except evening dinner, which he had to take with the other students.

Strangely enough, only a small contingent of Slytherins remained behind of his own year: Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle being most obvious. Harry'd remembered that fact despite the intervening years, funnily enough. Hermione's polyjuice accident was still fresh in his memory after all this time. But he'd never wondered before _why _Malfoy and his sidekicks had stayed in the castle that Christmas.

After a few days of squeezing in between older students – who had mostly stayed to study for O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s, and therefore usually brought their books to the dinner table – Harry found himself chatting tentatively with his old enemies. From the direction of Snape's seat at the table came an awfully odd stare, but Harry ignored it while he played nice with Malfoy.

"Draco says you must be bored hanging out in Gryffindor all alone," Crabbe of all people stated one day over dinner.

"What?" Harry paused, his fork of peas halfway to his mouth. "Not at all, though?"

Crabbe shrugged and took another mouthful himself, before gesturing at a rapidly reddening Malfoy. "He says you probably really want to hang out with us and are just waiting for an invitation."

At Harry's amused glance, Draco failed to meet his eyes, but Goyle nodded carefully. Harry finished his mouthful slowly. A long and complicated history stood between him and the kid, and he would have to speak cautiously.

"Are you saying you three are volunteering to support me through my...er, isolation?"

"Draco said it would be our civic duty."

Harry's silver cutlery clinked gently as he placed them precisely against the edges of his plate. "The invitation is very, erm, gracious of you, but I truly do have things that are keeping me busy at Hogwarts, so I, erm, regret to –"

"Draco said –"

"Vincent!"

"–you wouldn't want to be seen to show weakness," the large boy continued stoically over Malfoy's flustered protests. "Draco said that we shouldn't show _charity_ to you, but rather point out that being seen with the Boy-Who-Lived is a social coup, and therefore we're not showing you _pity_."

Harry stifled a grin. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but–"

"Draco said that you probably felt bad for being a Gryffindor, but that we shouldn't hold that against you. Draco said that you can't help following in your parent's footsteps, and that that's admirable family loyalty, and that we should show c-curtain, curts, uh..."

"Courtesy," Malfoy mumbled, looking down at his plate in fascination.

"Yeah, that," Crabbe nodded, "because you would surely respond to a civilised invitation."

Harry looked thoughtfully at the very earnest Crabbe and Goyle, and the somewhat more embarrassed Malfoy. He thought back to all that had happened because he rejected Malfoy's handshake on the train that very first day at Hogwarts. "Well, I guess I'd be," Harry's mouth worked, "honoured. To, uh, accompany you occasionally through the break."

Crabbe nodded, entirely unsurprised, and continued eating. "Draco said you would be."

Harry's dancing eyes met Malfoy's shamefaced ones over the table. From somewhere up by the teacher seats, Snape's familiar stare drilled into Harry's forehead, but Harry ignored that with the ease of long practice.

"Perhaps after dinner might suit?" Malfoy raised his goblet in Harry's direction before drinking to the thought.

Harry scowled, paused, sat thoughtfully before finally nodding. His plans could work around that, and combined with a lack of petrifications in the castle due to Harry's possession of the diary, there was a strange empty sensation that was surrounding him these days. The calm before the storm, Harry thought. He could do with some distraction.

* * *

The situation left Harry at an impasse for a number of days. The castle was busiest in the mornings, so he hid in Gryffindor tower alone, avoiding the gazes and mutters of those few who remained. His days therefore lingered, long and empty, until he finally filled them with more self-study. It wasn't quite what his holiday plans had originally involved. Somehow Harry recalled catching less attention last timeline, he didn't quite know why.

The house-elves in the kitchen became used to his schedule, and pounced upon him in worry if he turned up late to breakfast, or lunch, or if he forgot to request snack food midday. To his astonishment, Harry soon found it impossible to escape notice in the castle for more than an hour. And to Harry's surprise, all evening after dinner was taken up by playing games with his cautious acquaintances.

Malfoy, to Harry's utter bemusement, seemed strangely dedicated to following Harry around. He kept suggesting games, to Harry's baffled confusion. Exploding Snap worked best, since both Crabbe and Goyle knew the rules to that one. On those occasions, all four boys would find a spare classroom and bunker down for an inclusive game or ten. But occasionally Harry found himself wrangled into a game of chess with Malfoy, while the side-kicks looked on. When there was a break in the snowstorm outside, Harry allowed himself to be persuaded into two-to-a-side quidditch until it grew too dark to see. It was all very social. Frankly, it felt like a surreal time.

The only downside was his inability to sneak away to the Chamber of Secrets without drawing attention to himself. Harry had to make himself new plans.

Eventually, slightly after one o'clock at in the morning, a couple of days before Christmas, he found himself sitting behind the drawn curtains of his bed in his dormitory, waiting to Pookey to bring him the last of the tools for his plan.

He sat upright, cross-legged, just to make sure he didn't doze off while he waited in the empty dark silence of the boys' dormitory. There were no snores or sleepy snuffles – no one else in the dorm had stayed over the break, and the silence was heavy.

Combined with the heavy blanket of snow that lay over the grounds of Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest and drove all the animals into hibernation or deeper cover – and the rush of white noise, the static of the storms outside – Harry felt a little like the only person left in the world.

Sitting there in the dark, all Harry could hear was the slow, even rushing of his own pulse, and the whisper of fabric that rustled when he moved. He awaited the quiet creak of the dormitory door and the gentle sound of Pookey's light footsteps tapping her way towards his bed.

He was therefore somewhat astonished when Pookey appeared on his bed with a rather loud _crack_ and a number of small, jolting thuds.

_House-elves can apparate around Hogwarts,_ was Harry's first ridiculous thought, and then his brain snapped into gear. Leaning forward, his eyes worked hard to identify the shifting silhouettes on his bedcovers, and his wand up snapped up to deal with any accidents.

Wand-light lit the bed canopy.

To Harry's surprise and satisfaction, the small eager elf had landed on his bed in the company of twenty-five sleeping roosters, and feathers and dander were flying in the air. There was an irritating tickle in the back of his nose where some kind of fluff or dander teased him.

"From the kitchens," Pookey squeaked proudly, and Harry realised with a jolt that the school must buy in live chickens for their meals. The table tomorrow might be low on its meat.

"Thanks," Harry garbled, still caught by surprise, but he unfolded his legs and put his wand to work quick.

While Pookey beamed on, he gamely ferried them all over into the third compartment of his trunk. He thanked Pookey generously for her help – she twisted her fists through her tea towel in pride and pleasure – before letting her leave, and then he picked up his luggage in a few economical moves. Carefully pulling his Invisibility Cloak over his head and body, he silently picked up the bag and snuck down the tower stairs and out the Fat Lady's portrait.

Harry fit easily beneath the Invisibility Cloak, but still snuck warily towards Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Argus Filch, these days positively radiating nervous energy and fury, had taken to prowling the castle's corridors at night with unprecedented paranoia. Harry grimaced. He felt no particular fondness for the man or his cat, but Harry's chest still twisted with guilt whenever he considered that he was personally responsible for Mrs Norris' gruesome death. He would feel even worse if he also became responsible for Filch's eventual descent into madness. Perhaps there was something he could do...

But meanwhile, he successfully reached their destination and crept into the flooded bathroom with barely a sound.

Harry tiptoed into the quiet room, eyes sharp, ears alert, and realised after a long moment of silence that Moaning Myrtle must be off down her u-bend again. The bathroom was empty.

Still under his Cloak, Harry stepped over and placed himself at the far end of the huge mirror, by the furthermost sink.

"Right, I'm here, so I'll just take my stuff and sneak down to the Chamber," he muttered to himself. He sternly repressed the nervous thrill of his body. "Just psyching myself up, just like a Quidditch game, we're all good to go." It felt strange, Harry hovering on the precipice of a life-threatening encounter, without Ron or Hermione by his side.

He fumbled around for a moment to organise things. He stuffed his wand safely into his mokeskin pouch, so it would be safe from any immediate damage. He pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and popped it inside of his trunk for now – it would do no good covered in slime and weird gloop. Harry grabbed his luggage tightly to his chest with both hands, he gave his reflection little nod.

In the dim lighting, his face looked pale and sickly.

"Alright then," Harry said, and turned his attention to the snake on the side of one of the taps. ".._Open.._" he hissed sibilantly.

Anticipation rose.

The tap glowed a brilliant white and began to spin rapidly. The sink lurched with a groan of stone and porcelain and then sank immediately out of sight.

Harry awkwardly positioned himself in front of the gaping hole and levered his feet into the edge of the dirty pipe.

"If I don't make it back, sooner or later Hermione will notice the note on my bed. Nothing can go wrong." His voice reverberated a little in the empty room, and Harry suddenly felt ridiculous for speaking out loud. He glanced around, embarrassed.

His pallid reflection stared back at him, silent, and Harry chose not to think too deeply about what its complex expression revealed. But with that, Harry drew his hands and arms in as close as possible to his body, and, with a little grimace of nerves and reluctance, jerked himself down into the hole.

This time Harry kept his eyes closed as his body whooshed down the slimy pipe. He did not see the offshoots and branching attachments, but clenched his teeth and hoped to land without a problem.

He descended rapidly.

Just as he was starting to wonder if he had fallen down a wrong turn somewhere – had the twists always been so sudden? Did he knock his elbows and knuckles quite this much before? Surely the last ride hadn't taken this long? – Harry's pipe levelled out and he shot out of the chute and landed with a bump and a skid.

Bottom stinging and bruised-feeling, Harry groaned and sat up.

He rose to his feet and reorganised himself, hands busy despite the painful knocks to his elbows. A couple of cleaning spells later, his trunk was opened, his dad's Cloak pulled on, and he tucked the diary Horcrux securely into a pocket in his robe. Having arranged himself satisfactorily, Harry retrieved his wand for his pouch, and lit up the space with a silent, "_Lumos_."

The light brightened painfully as he peered into the dark. Old brickwork, too dirty to have a discernable colour, loomed out of the blackness in the light of Harry's wand, and then faded away into grey as it passed beyond his purview. Silence surrounded him. He determined he was alone.

With a grim look of determination and his raised wand light, Harry leaned down to collect the trunk in his left hand and walked cautiously into danger.

He passed the yellowing bones of dead animals on the floor, consciously not looking for anything that might resemble the regurgitated skeleton of a cat. The smell was dry and dusty, not the rotting meaty smell he had been half afraid of, but not exactly pleasant either.

Remembering Ron and Lockhart's previous problems, Harry took note of the ceiling as he walked and paused to stabilise dodgy-looking rock when he saw it.

All too soon he passed the humongous moult skin as it lay across the corridor, and began twitching with nerves every time he rounded a corner, wondering if this time he had reached his destination. The tension grew.

The corridor – the pipe, or sewer – seemed long and interminable, and all he could hear was his own breathing and the scrape of his shoes on the ground.

Some indeterminate time later, Harry slowed to a halt. Before him, he saw the wall of rock and serpent carvings on his path, and licked his lips anxiously while he paused for a breath. The ignoble brickwork continued beyond him, but the blandness of archway he'd been walking in positively paled beneath the sudden grandeur that was the door into the Chamber. The door loomed large, and looked strangely well-kept to Harry's amateur eye. Elaborate carvings framed the door and the serpentine enchantments that blocked the door played tricks on his eyes, dark shadows lurked and coils gleamed in the light. Harry took a moment to lick his lips. Then he hissed at the emerald-eyed snakes that barred his passage into the Chamber. Without a hiss or a whisper, they fell back out of his way in eerie silence.

Ancient wall sconces flickered dimly to life as Harry stepped beyond the doors into the Chamber itself, and he sensed, through the still air, that they remained open behind him. The available escape route settled his heart rate a little, and he walked on.

Harry kept his eyes keen, ready to squeeze them closed at the first sign of serpentine movement – not willing to bet his life on the fact that the Basilisk was _probably_ locked up – but positioned himself in the shadows away from the middle of the long room, and quickly crept towards its end.

The Chamber was larger than he remembered, he had shrunk it in his memory, and all was calm except for the sinister crackle of flames in the sconces and what might have been the patter of rats leaving the light.

Harry stepped on.

Finally seeing the huge, crude statue of Salazar Slytherin against the distant wall, he paused in his progress. Turning, organising, Harry pattered instead to one side and hid himself carefully behind a convenient pillar – not too close, not too far – and set himself up. The diary would be safe in his pocket for now, but he placed his trunk on the floor and withdrew twenty of the slumbering roosters. With a few flicks of his wand he placed them around at the bases of a number of distant columns.

The plan, thought Harry as he levitated them around, was simple.

He would call the Basilisk out, and kill it as soon as it left the statue's mouth by waking up the roosters. By leaving the roosters in plain sight and hiding himself he would simultaneously draw attention away from himself, and be able to check if the Basilisk was still killing – or Petrifying – with its eyes. Each rooster was carefully placed so that he could mark the passage of the Basilisk as it moved.

After more long minutes passed, Harry realised that he was fussing in order to delay the inevitable, and drew forth the calm of his Occlumency trance. It would not help him, exactly, but it would stop him panicking if his plans fell apart.

He braced his back against a stone column, facing away from the statue just to be safe.

Then, with a small summoned snake in front of him to stimulate his Parseltongue, Harry shouted out loudly.

"_Ssspeak to me, Ssslytherin, greatest of the Hogwartss Four_."

There was silence.

The garden snake stared at him curiously. After a long moment while Harry took note of the tension in his body, and carefully, purposefully forced his muscles to relax, he realised that there was no sound of scales on stone. The conjured serpent flicked its tongue out and watched him curiously.

Very cautiously Harry edged his tiny glass hand-mirror – borrowed off Lavender weeks ago for this purpose – around the edge of the column, and peeped around the corner. To his disgust, he saw that the statue's mouth remained closed.

Harry tried again three more times, before banishing the conjured snake in irritation and determinedly stalking to the base of the statue.

He gazed up at its great height, in his best imitation of Tom Riddle, and repeated the words firmly, this time gazing up into the face of Salazar Slytherin.

The distant crumble of small stones and gravel falling revealed to Harry the success of his attempt, even before he saw movement or heard the snake uncoil as it moved. _Stupid enchanted hoops to fly through._

He jogged back to his trunk behind the pillar and pulled out his final tool.

With a silent kick-off, Harry and his broomstick rose up silently into the air. With the increased manoeuvrability, improved vantage point and decreased sound to attract the Basilisk, Harry felt the likelihood of his success rise.

Was he worried? ...Nooo, not really. He was _moderately _sure that there would be no danger. If everything went right. Which it probably would.

With luck. He was due some good luck.

He had the mirror, the broomstick, the roosters, his wand, his memory, all working to his advantage.

He'd left a note.

He heard the great beast glide down the statue's body and onto the floor. With a sharp jab and silent incantation, Harry woke up the closest roosters.

Four roosters jerked awake in their distant positions below Harry, and rose to their feet. Harry watched with eager eyes as they clucked, and they gobbled, and squawked, but strangely, not one raised its voice in a cock-crow.

First one, then the others strutted stupidly out from behind the safety of their pillars and fell instantly dead to the floor.

The immediate silence was dominated by the sound of smooth scales gliding over rough stone below him.

Harry, his grand plan _still not yet failed_, noticed with detachment that his heartbeat was increasing.

He woke up six more roosters with another jab of his wand, and promptly saw half of them, too, wander directly out into the gaze of the deadly beast, where they collapsed in rigid seizure. The other three, inconveniently, decided to strut off the wrong way and disappeared into the darkness.

"Stupid birds," thought Harry distantly, a small flutter of panic burgeoning in his chest, as he heard their scratches and clucks diminish into the darkness. "Why aren't they crowing?"

The remaining birds woke with a surge of his magic, and Harry looked on in frustration and growing worry as they pecked stupidly at the stone tiles.

Not a _cock-a-doodle_, or even a full-throated squawk among them.

In fact, now that he looked, Harry wondered if they all looked a little sleepy. It was night time, after all.

Suddenly, he remembered with a pang that roosters traditionally crowed around dawn. Even taking into account Pookey's late arrival, the sneaking around the castle, his careful meanderings through the pipes and methodical preparations, Harry's silent _tempus_ spell revealed it was still before three in the morning. Daylight was hours away.

And now the lurid green snake slithered into view below. He watched first its shadow, and then its back, as it paused to devour the corpses of the first few roosters to die.

But perhaps, a calm voice whispered to him from this stillness of his mind, he could perk the others up.

A few urgent waves of his wand saw the flames of the torches on the walls enlarged to three times their previous size. The flickering light grew brighter, steadier, warmer, and the shadows darkened as light illuminated the room. The cavernous silence was broken by the sound of stone on scales, the chicken pecks as they stalked around, and now a warm crackling as the flames snapped energetically in the sconces. And his harsh breathing, Harry realised. He tried to modulate his breath.

The Basilisk paused for an instant in suspicious or confusion, Harry couldn't tell. Then to his bemusement, it continued gliding forward towards more of the dead birds.

A single rooster came wandering back from wherever it had been and scratched around in the dust below Harry, where the Basilisk had already passed. Did it have no survival instincts? Even if it had no sense, where was its evolutionary fight or flight response? But the beast itself had moved on now, to devour the bodies of its later victims.

Harry realised with a stab of horror that perhaps his clever plan was not so clever after all.

How did he force the Basilisk back into the statue? Could he escape the Chamber without the Basilisk Petrifying – or killing – him? Were the students all safe, asleep in their beds, or had others – like himself – decided to bend the rules during holidays? Could he stop the huge snake leaving the Chamber to find other, sentient victims? Were the house elves working late? What time did the kitchen open?

A cold chill shivered down his spine, and goosebumps stood up on Harry's invisible arms. Harry gazed on in dismay. Perhaps it was time for his backup plan?

"Dumbledore is the greatest. Dumbledore is the best. You will never be stronger than Dumbledore," he chanted under his breath, but no Fawkes or Sorting Hat or Sword of Gryffindor answered his call. Heart trembling, he repeated himself louder, not worrying that the Basilisk would hear, but no phoenix song answered his voice.

His heart sank. Still hovering safe above and behind the Basilisk, Harry thought frantically of what to do next. The Basilisk had finished swallowing its rooster victims and was beginning to move rapidly – what speed! How did it move so fast? – towards the exit of the room.

His skin broke out in a sheen of cold sweat, but Harry had no time to notice as he flicked through useless strategies in his mind.

With no plan yet fixed in his mind, Harry leaned into his broom and shot through the Chamber like a shooting star. All he could think to do was trap the creature in the Chamber, and buy himself a little time.

The Basilisk, huge and ponderous though it seemed, was nearly at the door.

"_ENGORGIO! COLLOPORTUS!_" Harry bellowed, as he let his reflexes work for him.

He threw out his little glass hand-mirror, which arced in a shallow curve as it flew towards the gap in the wall where the entwined serpents had moved aside to let him pass.

The enlargement charm sparked from his wand in a flash of blue and hit the mirror directly. Harry saw it doubling, tripling, quadrupling and more in size as it fell towards the exit in the Chamber wall.

The locking charm that followed immediately in its wake hit the little mirror with a flash of white, and dragged the swollen silver-and-glass object to bind it tightly against the edges of the gap. It was not perfect, the circular object left gaps in the corners, but they were not large enough for the King of Serpents.

The Basilisk – mere metres from the exit – heard his desperate shout, saw the mirror fall from above and slithered to a halt.

A gleam of light flashed over the mirror surface, and Harry saw with mounting expectation the poisonous green of the Basilisk's scales reflect in the clear silver pane. The research had theorised, of course...it was perfectly possible that with its deadly eyes...

It caught its own gaze.

Harry held his breath.


	17. Baiting the Basilisk

For one wild, glorious moment, Harry thought he had beaten the Basilisk. He saw it rear up at the mirror, meet its own gaze, and time itself seemed to pause for a moment in stillness.

Then the snake's coils churned, its head swung towards Harry. Had his Invisibility Cloak hood fallen off? Did it track by scent? Was it the broom? There wasn't time to consider. Harry shut his eyes and dived blindly to the left as it sprung out and leapt at him. Furious hisses lashed out at him from behind sharp teeth and sinister forked tongue: "_Kill you...let me devour...destroy you...come this way, little prey._"

Harry didn't have time to converse with the snake; he bent double on his broomstick and clutched the handle tightly.

Thank Merlin for his skills as a seeker.

Harry felt in his body the steepness of his dive and the pull of his turn. He cracked his eyes open – the Basilisk and its deadly eyes were behind him, for the moment – and managed to skim along just above the unforgiving stone floor.

"Of course its own reflection would fail to kill it," the calm, analytical part of his mind whispered while his body made its desperate escape. "It moves through _water_. Travels through _Myrtle's bathroom. _It must see its own reflection every time it wakes."

Yet he had no more time to think. He heard the predator snap, and miss. Frustrated hisses rushed out of the snake again, but Harry was focused on other things. A stale blast of warm and rusty breath brushed past him. Too close for comfort. A metallic scream grated below, a gust of air whooshed past his feet, but he had no time for shivers. Adrenaline pumping and without looking back, Harry shot spells in its direction and hoped some would hit.

"_Petrificus Totalus! Incarcerous! Incacerata! __Bombarda!_" Flashing lights shot from his wand and bounced off the Basilisk hide harmlessly.

Harry's blood boiled, the exuberance of the fight flushing through him.

"_Incarcifors_!" – succeeded, but _snap!_ – did not last long. "_Sectumsempra!_" A sound like nails on a blackboard reached his ears, the Cutting Curse also bounced futilely off the impervious Basilisk hide. His broomstick swooped up high, up into a corner of the Chamber, and accelerated again as Harry dodged another of the Basilisk's lunges by the skin of his teeth.

"_Vipera Evanesca!_" He muttered a bad word, "Worth a try. _Densaugeo! _Yes! Did it work? – Oh damn, bad idea, bad idea," he imagined the deadly fangs engorging behind him. "_Finite! Impedimenta! Tarantallegra!"_

Harry had barely time to wonder how he had failed to learn spells to fight against beasts and creatures.

Heart thumping, he threw a handful of transfiguration spells behind him and hoped something would work.

The air whooshed pasts his ears while he kept up his manic pace, the heavy sound of Basilisk coils letting him know precisely how close behind the monster was. Harry wanted to aim for the mouth – the mouth or the eyes – since the scales were so spell-resistant. He glanced at the shadows on the floor below him, but they didn't really help. Too many torches: too many shadows. He desperately wanted to glance back to see where the giant snake was.

But he couldn't look back. Harry hoped desperately for luck to be on his side. He'd be better organised next time, he promised himself, a blasting curse shooting out of his wand while he cornered.

More prepared. Better planning.

The Chamber seemed to close in around him; the Basilisk moved so fast, his broom had barely any space to escape.

Cold air brushed past his heated cheeks like Death's reaching fingers. A slip of freezing wind rushed beneath his collar and travelled down his spine. He almost welcomed it – he was so hot with adrenaline, unbearably hot with the heat of life.

He refocused his mind.

Harry flashed across the underground chamber, adrenaline flushing his system, wand dancing. He streaked through the air like a dark spectre; in the raging light of many torches, his multitude of shadows rippled over rock and stone. Rapid-fire spell work was causing flashes of light to sputter and spark across the Chamber, the walls flaring radiantly with reds and blues, gold, white and violets; with each flare of light, all the huge columns grew heavy shadows and cast uncountable silhouettes that flickered wickedly on the floor.

Stonework shone and shadowed grimly with unworldly angles.

Hogwarts seemed to hold her breath.

Finally – _finally – _the stupid chickens did their job.

A lucky rooster, having been neither killed nor squashed in the wild chaos, finally crowed cheerfully from the other end of the Chamber. He was echoed by first one, and then another surviving featherbrain.

It seemed to Harry that the whole world paused for a second in anticipation. Still unable to look behind himself safely, Harry cocked his head and strained his ears with bated breath. Would it work?

The heart-stopping moment passed, and time snapped back with a vengeance. An almighty crash sounded behind him as the pursuing Basilisk landed badly, and Harry retreated up high, behind a distant column, while the thunderous, rolling death throes of the monster worked out.

Furious hissing rattled around the room, and Harry needed no parseltongue to understand the Basilisk's fury and rage.

"_...King_," it seethed, while its coils surged and ebbed. "_Triumphant...destroy...kill..._"

From his place of relative safety, Harry listened in awe to the sound of the Basilisk's death. Sharp cracks and heavy thuds echoed around the dimly lit chamber. Harry imagined the huge coils thrashing into the stone floor. A lone stone fragment skittered into his view on the floor below. He pictured the monster throwing its body into the ground so hard that it was breaking the rock up. There was a heart-stopping cringed at the sound of scales scraping past stone. It was worse than nails on a blackboard: like hearing the full horror that scratching up his old school blackboard always threatened, but never quite managed. A full-body shiver ran the length of his body, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in primal instinct. More plunking in the distance sounded like other stone fragments raining down on the floor.

Then a change: A monstrous thunder reverberated through the room.

The castle itself seemed to shudder, and centuries-old dust rained down for the ceiling like decay from the heavens. Beneath the monstrous shudders and terrible noise of huge, heavy stones shattering, Harry realised with a hitch in his breathing that the powerful body had forced over one of the enormous stone pillars that supported the Chamber ceiling. Would it collapse?

Although all of this had happened too fast for Harry to properly process, now it seemed that time was slowing right down. Small fragments of rock bounced and tinkled across the hard, stone floor.

Shrapnel littered his view.

Harry waited and waited, but still the monster refused to be still.

At some point in time, the hissing had stopped, but it still wasn't dead. Harry heard it thrashing mightily for long minutes, while Harry still hovered anxiously up in his hiding place.

The hood of his Invisibility Cloak had fallen off, Harry noticed idly. Probably because of the quidditch dives. His attention was caught by a change in the noise.

A long pause – silence – and he was startled again as the seizures spasmodically returned.

Once, twice, three times.

He checked the time. While knowing his perception of time was off, Harry was still startled to see the _tempus _spell telling him that only twenty minutes had passed since his last check. He had left Myrtle's bathroom perhaps an hour ago, total. It was a quarter past three in the morning.

* * *

By the time the silence stretched out unbroken, Harry had calmed his breathing and slowed his heart rate. He was ready for the next challenge.

"_Accio Luggage!_" he muttered, and his familiar grey dragon-leather trunk came whistling towards him. From the final five roosters still sleeping in his third compartment, he woke up one rooster at a time and floated them quickly over and around the area where he had heard the Basilisk thrashing. When one rooster returned dead, Harry waited a further ten minutes and tried it again. The third rooster returned, grumpy but alive, and Harry finally dared to circle closer.

With his gaze fixed firmly _close-but-not-on_ the poisonous green body, he dared to lower his broomstick to the floor and, in the wakeful darkness, dismount his broom to walk on trembling legs.

His footsteps clicked softly as Harry dared approach the huge body from behind and _poke _it with a stab of magic.

Nothing moved.

He tried it again, a stronger thrust of magical strength near the small end of its tail, and was finally convinced of its death.

Working quickly, Harry levitated a large sheet over its head, where he thought its eyes would be – he could not see its face from behind, and didn't want to risk post-mortem petrification – and it was only a moment's work to fly over to the head and use his wand to sever one of its fangs.

The _densaugeo _had done a magnificent job, to Harry's belated dismay. The deadly, venomous fangs protruded menacingly from the dead Basilisk's jaw even beyond the large sheet that covered its eyes. Four front teeth looked to be the size of horrendous, curved mammoth tusks. The others reached merely the size of a sabre or less. He landed his broom relatively close and severed a small one with a sharp slash of his wand. The fang clattered to the stone floor, and he summoned it carefully over.

In the silence of the Chamber, Harry clambered off his broomstick, retrieved the diary from his pocket, and laid it carefully on the floor. He stumbled to his knees, Basilisk fang held gingerly between finger and thumb.

Then he stopped.

"No need to slip up now, and accidentally poison myself to death," Harry mumbled to himself with a morbid, slightly hysterical giggle.

After a quick pause, he returned to his trunk and pulled out his Herbology gloves, made from a fine, strong dragon-hide. He pulled them roughly over his hands. A deep breath, both hands clutched tight around the engorged tooth, a pause. Then with one smooth movement, Harry stabbed it straight into the heart of the diary that was still slowly but surely consuming Fred's soul.

A piercing, unearthly scream broke the silence. Ink erupted from the wound in the diary in surges, splashing over Harry's hands, running over his knees and robes. In his mind's eye, Harry saw the pale figure of Ginny's body lying prone of the Chamber floor. He heard the phantom of Tom Riddle's smooth whisper in his ear. Harry shivered and blinked.

He was in the Chamber: he'd come alone.

Goosebumps were raised all over his skin, each hair on Harry's arms stood straight and frigid. Harry tried to block his ears to the shrill hatred and rage that pounded futilely against his mind.

The shriek went on and on, before finally cutting away suddenly, without a whimper or gurgle.

Harry's ears rang in the sudden stillness.

With a long sigh that was almost a groan, Harry jerked the fang back out of the book and blinked in dismay when his sudden loss of tension caused the room to spin. He sat wearily back on his ankles.

Fred was safe. Hogwarts was safe. He once more had time.

He tilted backwards suddenly, and sprawled over the grimy, painful floor. The basilisk fang clattered to the floor, slipping from suddenly loose fingers. Harry lay back, arms sprawled, and stared blankly up, up into the shadows of the ceiling.

Sharp rock fragments and gravel dug into his back painfully, but he didn't mind. Instead he lay there for one long, peaceful moment as the tension drained out of him. The furious, panicked heat began to drain out of his body, and Harry felt his sweat cooling on his skin. Feeling returned to his arms and legs.

Distantly, the sharp spikes of the rocks he was lying on began to register, to hurt.

It felt good to be alive.

* * *

Finally Harry realised that his fixed gaze could no longer see the high ceiling, and that light in the Chamber had returned to a dimmer, calmer ambience. He blinked, and returned back to himself.

Painfully, Harry levered his shoulders up and rolled to the side. His arms shook with the effort, to Harry's surprised disbelief. He must have pushed himself harder than he realised. His fingers were cramping, from what he wasn't quite sure.

His startled gaze stared blankly about the chamber. When the hazy sight met his eyes, Harry fumbled off his glasses and rubbed them roughly against the fabric of his robe.

Hopefully cleaner, he jammed them back on his face and tried to focus this time.

What was the damage?

The torchlight, Harry noted, from the wall fittings was slowly dying back to the dim flickering that had spluttered to life when he entered the room. Shadows were returning to coat the room in a mysterious blanket of darkness.

The centre of the room was dominated by the huge corpse of the deadly serpent, half wreathed in shadows, half gleaming in the light. It lay prominently across the cold grey floor, surrounded by rubble and the remains of the column it had destroyed. Smaller chunks of stone and debris were strewn around the Chamber. A few stray rooster feathers resettled as the air stilled, and Harry spared a stray thought for their valuable sacrifice. The statue of Salazar still towered over the room, but his mouth remained open and Harry thought, with an inappropriate snort, that the resulting gormless expression was a fitting tribute to his legacy.

Harry suppressed the urge to giggle.

It was a satisfying monument for the death of his muggleborn-cleansing agenda.

He sat still for a while, letting the adrenaline work its way through his system. He couldn't help but stare, blank staring, as the size of the Basilisk, as its huge mass in comparison to his own, began to register.

Had he killed that? Had he fought it _on purpose_?

Harry sat there and stared and let the vastness of the realisation settle over him like a cloak. He'd _fought_ that. He'd _chosen_ to fight a _Basilisk_.

…He'd _won_.

He didn't have time to feel pride blossoming because of his triumph. Instead, what began to sink in was the craziness of his plan and sheer gall he had shown. Had he thought himself up to the task? Hubris kills, he remembered Hermione saying. He felt the knowledge deep in his bones now. How had he lived last time, Harry wondered?

Oh, that was right, a small voice in his mind noted absently. Fawkes had done most of the fighting for him.

Harry realised that his mouth was hanging open and he closed it silently.

Who in their right mind tried to fight a Basilisk _alone_?

Harry tried to take stock of his condition.

Now that the adrenaline was fading, Harry felt himself cool off and shiver. His grasping fingers reached out to gather his Cloak closer around him, and he awkwardly repositioned himself as he did so.

Then he frowned. There was a sharp stab of pain in his left ankle, which turned into a dull throb when he stopped moving. When he fumbled around to figure out why, Harry's reaching fingers touched swollen flesh.

Inhaling sharply at the sudden spike of agony, Harry's nose caught an odd, metallic scent. He raised his fingers up to his nose and sniffed. Wet blood.

He'd sprained or broken his ankle, and scraped up the flesh pretty bad.

Groaning a little, Harry fished about for his wand to set himself to rights. His Cloak would need cleaning, his whole body, most likely. A quick _episkey_ made the joint feel very hot, and then very cold, but Harry's shoulders relaxed a bit when the pain began to fade.

He let go of it in a hurry almost immediately when his hands began shaking with delayed shock, cautiously dropping it away from his body. His body seemed so heavy, so tired, and he gazed around the dungeon in a daze.

What else was there to do?

* * *

Eventually, after goodness knows how long, Harry regained his focus and hauled himself to his feet, groaning and tottering like an old man. Was this how it felt to be Dumbledore in the mornings, he wondered idly while he paused, waiting for the room to stop spinning?

His muscles felt so heavy. It would be much easier, Harry felt, to go back and sit on the floor for a few more minutes.

He wavered where he stood.

Then Harry thought of bed longingly, his duties finally accomplished, and instead he stumbled over to his luggage in the gloom.

"There y'are," he slurred, once he finally swayed directly over the leather trunk. "Gotcha." He felt like a punch-drunk boxer as he stood there, waiting for the trunk to stop moving before his eyes. "Stop that. 'S better."

His wand in one hand, Harry stared thoughtfully between the luggage on the floor and the broomstick he held in his left hand. There were three things to hold, and he only had two hands. "Gotta…" Harry mumbled, "Gotta all go back. Need th' broom for the thing. Pipes."

Eventually he remembered that the luggage had a leash, and with a few instructions it was bobbing once more in his wake.

The next snag in his plan hit when Harry made it to the entrance, which he had locked with Lavendar's enlarged mirror and a very powerful spell.

He blinked dazedly at the boy in the mirror before recognition dawned: he looked terrible, Harry realised. There was a gash in his head, while dirt and sweat streaked all his clothes.

"_Reparo_," Harry mumbled, and blinked mildly when his clothes seemed to straighten themselves up a little. A mild cleaning spell put him further to rights. He sniffed: seemed a bit better. Eyes flickering, Harry remembered to rearrange his Invisibility Clock over his shoulders. His body disappeared once more behind the enchanted fabric and the heavy cloak settled about his body like a hug. Harry took one final look at his own reflection - disembodied head and everything - before focusing beyond, to the mirror itself.

"_Alohomora_."

There was an odd squelching noise that seemed very loud in the silence of the chamber as the doorway unsealed, and to Harry's dismay the huge, oversized hand-mirror began to topple, ever so slowly, towards the ground on which Harry was standing. The ponderous threat fell silently, barring only the smallest of tinkles from somewhere back in the chamber, and therefore seemed all the more deadly. His reflection disported as the mirror loomed overhead.

Harry scuttled backwards, overused muscles aching, and darted off a few more spells. A _reducio_ flashed out, a _protego _flashed up, but fortunately Harry caught the falling mirror with a gentle charm and it drifted softly to the floor.

It landed at Harry's feet with the softest of clinks.

For a long moment, Harry just stood there in the silence and the solitude – wand out, staring at it – before he bent with another groan and picked it up to put in his pocket.

He wished idly that Dobby could come to the Chamber and help him out. Dobby would love to see the destruction of the snake, to help out with the cleaning…

The cleaning.

There was the slightest of noises behind him, now that Harry noted his ears had been ringing. And now they weren't. So he turned, the slow trickle of dust from the ceiling continued, and underneath the soft hiss came the pecking, poking, pointed steps of stupid chickens stalking their way across the chamber. Ingeniously, one crowed again, now that it was unnecessary, and Harry felt pure rage and frustration rise up within him that _now_ they realised they could crow properly.

He could have easily cursed them, they definitely deserved it, but Harry was not that kind of wizard. Instead, he lowered his wand and turned with heavy shoulders to retrieve the remaining roosters and shove them all back into his luggage compartment.

The sleeping spell seemed hard work, now, as Harry slowly, so slowly, drew his wand-tip through the motions and then ferried them into his trunk.

His brain seemed stretched, Harry noted, as if from a distance. With the doorway now unlocked he was ready to leave, but he turned once more, with great reluctance and the feeling that his brain was bruised and significantly overused, Harry faced the darkness of the Chamber one more time.

The same steady whisper of falling dust tantalized his memory.

He should fix the column, Harry thought dimly, noticing idly that his body was going to run out of energy soon.

Ceilings collapsing, Harry distantly knew, were a thing. Happened around here.

Ron, he remembered. Ceilings hurt.

A vague worry of the Chamber collapsing was superimposed onto his brain, although Harry couldn't quite articulate the words. But if the Chamber collapsed, Harry knew, Hogwarts herself might be damaged.

His wand began glowing as Harry prepared for one final spell. Brighter and brighter his wand-tip shone, until the orange light blossomed into a burning white star. Harry stared blankly out into the darkness of the Chambers expanse, not noticing the stark shadows that fell around him, running from the brilliance of his wand.

His shoulders were heavy, his eyelids fought to close. Harry felt deep within his muscles the protests of his body, wanting to tremble, wanting to rest.

But first, he gathered up all his remaining magic. It built up, and up; the light grew brighter and brighter at his side.

Harry's willpower strained against his exhaustion; he felt thin, he was stretching…

Something inside him wanted to pop. He was dealing with masses of magic that he wasn't equipped to manage, but Harry forced himself on with the determination that made the Boy-Who-Lived famous. Something creaked inside his mind, he was well past his limits, but he had almost enough power. Somehow the heavy air of the Chamber seemed to press down on him; his knees wanted to buckle, but, at the same time the pressure helped define his edges. Beneath the pressure of Hogwarts herself, Harry found his limits as power pooled under his skin.

The magic saturated his body more intensely than Harry had ever imagined it could, forcing itself into capillaries and between cells where it had never before needed to pool: his skin became super-sensitive, each brush of the Cloak around him burned, hurting and helping him remember where his skin began and ended. His eyesight wavered and he saw for an instant parts of the light spectrum that humans were never meant to see…

The weight of the magic was crushing him, turning him inside out and forcing him to his knees. If it had been a complex spell, Harry realised subconsciously, it could have killed him in an instant, but fortunately, he had cast it a thousand times.

He knew it better than he knew himself.

Harry brought it all back together in a triumph of mind over matter and an audible snap, his steadfast will forcing the magic to overcome his limits.

"_Reparo_."

A massive spell roared out from his wand and swept up the debris in the Chamber with unrelenting force. Like a whirlwind in reverse, dust, gravel, chunks of wood and stone were swept up from the floor and twisted and turned up and up into the air and back where they came from.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the chunks of column that lay scattered about the floor raised themselves up, righted themselves, and ponderously joined with the whirlwind.

Harry watched the column recreate itself from its parts, barely having the energy left to be amazed at the power of his charm.

He watched blankly at the column regrew to reach the ceiling, for the huge arched vault to connect. The small trickle of dust that his subconscious mind had recognised stopped sounding, and Hogwarts herself seemed to sigh as she settled back on her foundations with relief.

Harry dropped his arm down by his side and sagged with exhaustion. He was emptier than he could ever remember being. He couldn't form words anymore, to encourage himself back to bed. He couldn't even form thoughts.

Where his thoughts, goals, feelings usually surged, Harry found only a cavernous space. He had never felt more empty, not even when he was about to die. He had never felt more alone.

He couldn't even manage a heavy sigh to relieve the tension. Instead, the whisper of a breath whistled out beneath his lips in the silence and the solitude. It disappeared into the dark.

He never did remember how he made it back to the Gryffindor Tower.


	18. Responsibilities

Harry woke up to the arrhythmic sound of many disgruntled owls hooting. They seemed impatient, Harry noticed blearily, and there seemed to be lots of them, and something was tapping his left foot.

He was done for the year, Harry protested, not wanting to move an inch. Destroyed the diary, beaten the Basilisk. Surely now the threat was over and he could relax for the year. Apparently, the world had other plans. With a jerk of his head and a muffled groan, Harry forced open his eyes. They were sealed somewhat by sleep, but eventually he cracked the right eye open.

As he catalogued his sensations, Harry found himself lying face-down on the bed, and the solid rims of his glasses were pressing painfully into the bridge of his nose and left eye. When Harry groggily raised his head and traced the pain with his fingers, deep indents had formed on his skin. From the sensitive tingling of his cheek and jaw, a faint imprint from the blanket fabric must be traced finely onto the left side of his face also. He glanced around the bed. He was lying askew, clothed in everything he had worn last night – if the mysterious invisibility of his upper torso was any indication. His sore foot protruded beyond the bed hangings to dangle into the boys' dormitory, probably still wearing his shoes. His feet were numb with cold.

Shaking his head, Harry resettled the glasses, and in the process discovered he'd been lying on his wand. His heart almost stopped. With ice-cold fingers he reached out and raised it up before his eyes. Was it injured? A haze drifted between his eyes and his wand. Irritated, Harry noticed how smudged his glasses were, and cleaned them quickly to better focus. Were there cracks? A stress fracture? His sensitive fingertips traced slowly along the full-length of his holly wand.

He needed the wand for Voldemort! He couldn't lose the wand, things were already dicey as they were. Too much was going wrong, Harry caught himself thinking: he needed better planning, he obviously needed better perspective…He cut off the thought.

The wood grain was as smooth as pearl under his fingers. He almost cried; it was fine. The wand was okay, nothing was broken. Harry's momentary panic began to settle as his racing heartbeat gentled with the realisation.

Gathering his scattered wits, Harry stuffed the wand carefully back into his mokeskin pouch and turned to investigate his state of affairs. He stank, he realised belatedly as a waft of warm air puffed up from inside his robe, of sweat and fear and grime like he could barely believe. He'd spread the filth all over his bedcovers, and while he was sleeping his bed canopy had filled up with the heady, heavy scent.

His eyes were naturally drawn to the light which trickled into the canopy through the gap he'd created with his stray leg.

Which was being poked.

With a groan that escaped his chest without any conscious thought on Harry's part, he gathered his protesting body together and sat up. His muscles screamed and a couple of joints in his spine clicked painfully. The tapping on his foot paused. With curious hands, Harry spread the bed hangings open, allowing fresh air and more light to spill in.

His mouth dropped open.

A multitude of owls were settled over all the furniture of the dormitory, on luggage, on the beds of his dorm mates, high and low. Many were hooting, but the sound of wings ruffling and beaks snapping wasn't quiet either. A particularly impatient screech owl was on his sore leg, and after one look of ruffled and indignant frustration, it returned to pecking at Harry's boot.

He sighed and ran his hands through – surprisingly grimy – hair. Despite his hopes for the year, clearly he was nowhere near getting a break.

"Wow, alright," he croaked through dry lips. There must be over twenty owls in the room. "Er. Who wants to go first then?"

A number of owls fluttered up into the air and advanced towards Harry with a flurry of feathers. The impatient owl on his foot had begun tapping madly, getting unfortunately close to Harry's ankle.

He fell back onto the bed, curtains gaping. "Woah! Hold up, hold up! Um…you first, then."

With Harry's recognition, the pushy owl hopped further up his limb and delicately extended a leg. Claws dug into his thigh painfully, but Harry ignored it due to the threatening look in the owl's eyes.

Harry quickly retrieved the parchment and unrolled it cautiously.

_Merlin damn you, Potter!_ The letter began.

_Since you have not told me you are ill, I have restrained from setting Madam Pomphrey on you. You owe me more than a pathetic defence in chess now. (Up your game, Potter, if you still care.) If there is something you are sulking about, pray act like a courteous wizard and let me know what it is I've done. If you have merely taken advantage of the holidays to abscond, I have told the professors that you are sleeping due to over-eating Bertie Botts Beans. Should your absence be discovered, then I know nothing; it's none of my business and you're going to miss a fabulous Christmas feast, you absolute pillock._

_Draco_

Having been relieved of its burden, the owl gave Harry one last peck on his knee and flew off in disgust. It might have been the wait, or maybe a lack of bacon. Harry thought nothing more of it; he was still processing the letter. Malfoy – or Draco, were they on first name terms now? – had sent him a letter. Because he was…missed?

He glanced up at the window, and realised with a sinking feeling that it was not, in fact, the soft light of a Scottish morning, but more the look of an early afternoon, bad weather notwithstanding.

Perhaps he had slept longer than he thought? He had, Harry realised, always had a tendency to sleep in the Infirmary for longer than he had planned.

He hurriedly collected the letters from all the owls that now waited around on his bed. Letters from Hermione and Neville, one each, and correspondence from Luna and Percy too. He put them aside. And seventeen owls all from Draco. Had he emptied out the Hogwarts owlery?

He tried to put them in order.

The first couple were politely distant notes of concern and query. _Sorry to see you missed dinner, Potter. __Just confirming that we had organised for a game of Exploding Snap this evening? Are we still on?_

Then,_ Did you forget, Potter? Should I send you your own reminder notes from now on so that you can uphold your social engagements?_

_Are you sick, Potter? Should I send a teacher for you?_

_Are you mad at me, Potter? What was it that I did? Well, recently, I mean. I thought we moved on past that Quidditch fuss…It really wasn't me, you know. I don't know what you've heard, but if you'd just talk to me, I'm sure you'd find yourself relieved._

_I hope you're not listening to Slytherin gossip, Potter, although Merlin only knows who'd share it with you. I may or may not have implied a few things about our Quidditch match and subsequent relationship, but it's only to consolidate my status within the House. We both know better though, don't we? There's no reason to be weird about it._

_Are you ignoring me? Fine. I can play your game._

Despite his threats, the letters got more and more impatient, until eventually:_ Potter, the teachers are worried about you at dinner again. Apparently no one has seen you since Wednesday. Is everything alright?_

Obviously, the final letter that Malfoy had sent had been the first one he'd opened. Malfoy must have been in a terrible sulk, and probably told it to pester him until he responded appropriately.

Swearing, Harry staggered to his feet and stumbled upwards and almost headbutted his trunk; it was floating just beyond the bed, bobbing just as it had when he had left the Chamber however long ago. He set it down immediately and dived through it to get some clean clothes. A bath, he needed desperately; spellwork would have to do. Clean clothes. Brush teeth. A drink and food: something light. Places to be. He had to look normal. Well, normal for him. For a normal student.

Had he, Harry guessed, slept through until Christmas afternoon? He dashed towards the door – stumbled over something wrapped in gold; the Christmas presents were scattered all over, the pile was _huge_ this year, something snapped under his foot – but there was no time, so he left the room in a flurry.

* * *

He had indeed slept through until Christmas afternoon.

Harry clattered down from Gryffindor tower looking a lot better, even if he didn't quite feel it, with all the intentions of rejoining society and pretending he had never been missing. Two older Gryffindors in the common room wished him a Merry Christmas just as Harry dashed out of the stairwell, and Harry was just flustered enough to remember that he had to _act normal_, so he screeched to a halt and made small talk on his feet for a while before dinner.

He never quite managed to grasp what the small talk covered, unfortunately. It was one of those occasions when his mouth ran ahead and his adrenaline took control. He'd stood a long time on his feet, chatting with the older students. No Gryffindor prefects had stayed for Christmas this year, so thankfully the house was a little disorganised. That was probably how he'd managed to sleep those two and a half days. That meant, of course, that he was caught talking to two older students that he didn't really know much about.

Harry thought, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot and the adrenaline resettled, that he might have been talking about the weather? The snowstorm? Or maybe he was discussing the infamous quidditch game again. His brain seemed to be skipping like a bad record player: snatches of thought and words made sense, and then a rushed garble before he caught up with the conversation again. Harry really couldn't be sure. At some point, his companions stood up and made different noises, and he found himself following them out of the tower. He just hoped, as he strode down the long Hogwarts corridors, that he hadn't made too much of a fool of himself.

When Harry got over the panic and embarrassment, the dinner itself was magnificent. The turkeys were huge and golden-brown and glistening, and the enormous tureens of buttered peas and platters of sliced ham looked divine. The candles floating overhead looked like fireflies in the night, and the glares and judgement of a number of teachers at the table were really quite easy to ignore. The fires of the Great Hall roared merrily in their hearths; the whole room was full of cheer and warmth; it was the perfect contrast to the snowstorm outside. Harry sat next to Draco Malfoy, who accepted his presence with a raised eyebrow and some hastily whispered apologies on Harry's behalf. It wasn't quite was Harry was used to, but it was pleasant company just the same.

It was a pity that none of the Weasleys were there, but it was all Harry's fault. His friends would have stayed if he hadn't encouraged them to leave. When only loyal Ron held out, Harry had slipped Percy those Galleons and told him to organise something for the whole family, thereby guaranteeing they would be out of his hair for the duration of his plan. Now he was reaping the rewards of his actions. No one was there to make the usual comments about his eating habits, force him to fork one more slice of meat onto his plate, or worry mildly about his weight again. Instead of the usual companionship, only Malfoy eyed him curiously for the first half of the meal, pride apparently still insulted. Harry ignored him while he ate, but Malfoy's grey eyes rested on him constantly. Evaluating. Measuring. Weighing.

The blond Slytherin actually opened his mouth to a number of times peevishly while Harry continued to eat. But each time he stopped, paused, and withheld his questions or comments, to Harry's relief.

"Did you like my present?" Draco finally demanded, child-like enthusiasm for Christmas winning out over his sulk.

"What?"

"What I got you for Christmas!" Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not in the business of buying people presents for no reason, Potter. So, did you like it?"

Utterly baffled, Harry cast his mind back to the huge pile of presents that he'd tripped over in his rush to get out the door. "Uh…you got me a present?"

"Obviously!"

"Sorry." Harry scratched the back of his neck. "I got more presents than I was expecting this Christmas, actually. I, uh, haven't managed to get through all of them yet."

Draco sniffed, and took an elegant sip of butterbeer before he spoke. "I see. I shall expect my thank you note in due time, then."

Harry swallowed his peas and nodded earnestly. "Oh, yes, of course. Will, uh, will everyone be expecting thank you notes, do you think?"

Draco looked startled. "Of course. Even if a return gift is not given, a simple acknowledgement of the time and effort that went into the gift is the bare minimum required."

Harry groaned.

"Please, Potter, don't be déclassé."

"No, no. You don't get it," Harry protested. They he rested his wrists on the table and eyed Malfoy measuringly. "I, ugh...you're not going to let this one go, are you? I suppose I should, uh...I think I'd better just show you. You have time for me after dinner, don't you? We'll have to take over a classroom somewhere, I guess."

"Well, after the last couple of days..."

"Look, I said I was sorry!"

Draco humphed. "As opposed to our usual games? I suppose I'm intrigued."

Harry watched Malfoy control his curiosity throughout the rest of dinner with amusement. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other hand, seemed barely interested in him but instead focused deeply on the food. Their greedy eyes and reaching hands – demanding this platter, or that jug – helped Harry keep Draco busy all meal, until they could finally escape and talk.

* * *

Harry pottered into the empty Charms classroom sometime later that evening, where an exasperated Draco was impatiently waiting for him.

"What is it, Potter? This had better live up to all the mystery."

Having paused at the door, Harry walked in at Draco's words with a small present in hand. He'd hastily found a convenient parcel and rewrapped it so it didn't look re-gifted. "Look, here," he said, handing over the messily wrapped package. "Here's your Christmas present from me. Sorry I didn't get it to your earlier. I, uh, wanted to hand it to you in person," he bluffed, resolutely ignoring the small lie. "It's been fun, hanging with you these holidays, so, I, um, got you this as thanks."

Draco reached up to grasp the present eagerly, his eyes lighting up. "Why, Potter, I didn't think you appreciated me." He held the little package to his ear and rattled it softly. "What have you got me? How mysterious." Suddenly looking younger than his twelve years, he sat up straight with his eyes aglow and carefully peeled off the spellotape that held the wrapping together.

Harry was amused to see that Draco was a slow and careful unwrapper of gifts, careful not to tear the paper, rather than Ron's rip-it-open-and-tear-it-off style.

"Sorry it's nothing more permanent," Harry apologised while Draco unfolded the wrap with precise fingers. "I didn't think I knew you well enough for anything, um, distinctive. Yet."

But, "Chocolate frogs!" Draco exclaimed with childish delight. "Potter, you do love me!" He turned to smile at Harry with true satisfaction, before setting the present precisely to one side. "Potter, I am very grateful to receive such a thoughtful and enjoyable Christmas gift. Thank you for your kind wishes."

Harry scratched the back of his neck again. "Er, you're welcome? Is that what I'm supposed to say to you, too?"

"Honestly, Potter." Draco settled down again more comfortably in his seat, and popped open the box that Harry had regifted him languidly. "I sent you your present by owl, so your thank you should be returned by owl too. You gave me your present in person – a bit late, but the personal touch makes up for that – so my thanks should be given in person. Has no one ever taught you common courtesy?"

Harry shuffled over into a seat near Draco's and settled down with a sigh. "No? Not really? I mean, I grew up with muggles anyway, so the culture is probably different, but I've never really got any—"

"_No_!"

"…What?"

Draco sat up indignantly. "You grew up with _muggles?_"

Harry was surprised. "Well, yeah. Doesn't everyone know?"

Draco was incredulous. "What? No! You…but…_Really?_...With…_No!_" He turned to Harry and eyed him top to toe. "With _muggles?_ Harry Potter grew up with _muggles_? Are you serious?!"

It being the same background that he'd always had, Harry didn't quite get the fuss. "Well, yeah. My mum's family. We're not close, but…why?" Surely people had known last timeline, hadn't they? At some point it must all have come out?

Draco looked like his world had just realigned itself around him. "But now it all makes so much more sense! No wonder you seem so polite, but then do such odd things. No wonder you're friends with Weasley and Granger – er," he shot a look at Harry, "I'm sure they're very fine friends of yours and whatnot, even though they're just really not my type. Just..._really_? No wonder you act like you do!"

Harry really hadn't realised that his behaviour was all that unusual, and wondered if this was why Malfoy of the last timeline had always seemed irritated with him. "I…yes, I guess?"

"Merlin's Beard, Potter! You need a crash course in culture!"

"I do?" Harry thought, with his time in two timelines behind him, that he'd been doing very well for himself, thank you very much.

"No one follows all the rules, of course," Draco protested. "But at the very least you should know what rules you're breaking on purpose and what people think you mean by it!"

Harry blinked. That seemed to make an unfortunate amount of sense. "Look, I…well, maybe we can cover this later?"

Draco raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Oh yes, your mysterious Christmas present problem. Well, go ahead then, Potter. Astonish me."

Harry stood up to grab his trusty luggage, that had once more been bobbing along in his wake, and settled down on the floor at the front of the classroom to Draco's baffled gaze.

"This had better be good, Potter," Draco snarked. Then he crossed his arms and settled back in his seat cynically. Absently he unwrapped a chocolate frog and popped it into his mouth.

Harry crossed his legs and settled himself as comfortably as he could. "Look, well, a few months ago I reset my mail wards, and well…you'd better just see."

With a click, he under his trunk lid, and with a wave of his wand a line of presents formed. Harry began guiding a stream of presents out from the compartment where he'd stashed them, in his brief dash to his bed after dinner, and onto the floor that surrounded him.

Draco raised both eyebrows. "Oh, yes. Very impressive, Potter, that's quite a lot of…" He trailed off. The floating string of presents continued, and the small pile of presents by Harry's knees began to grow, and grow. "In fact," said Draco, sitting upright. "That's really quite a few…quite a lot of presents," he agreed. He watched open-mouthed as Harry kept ferrying the presents out, and the pile built up to Harry's shoulders, and expanded. Under Harry's steadfast wand, presents started skidding down the pile and pooling across the whole front of the classroom. Then the pile began growing taller and taller again. Draco pulled his feet in as a gold and blue present skittered down the mound of gifts and bumped against his right foot, where it sat wobbling slightly.

"…I think I see your problem," Draco finally managed, as the last handful of gifts arose out of Harry's compartments and tumbled down gently to the spread-out heap. "That's, that's much more than I've ever gotten," he added a little enviously. "Where did all these presents come from?

Harry looked hopelessly up at Draco's face. "I reset my mail wards over the last holidays," he repeated, "and a bunch of people sent me birthday presents. Not many," he added hastily. "Well, nothing like this, but Hermione made me write out thank you notes, and I think they've told all their friends."

Draco snorted. "I think they've told half of wizarding Britain."

"So what do I do?" asked Harry plaintively.

Draco assumed the posture of an expert and rubbed his hands together efficiently. "Well, you obviously need to ensure proper courtesy is carried out, of course, so that means…" he faltered under the weight of Harry's gaze and the sheer mass of all the presents that lay glistening at his feet. "Well, we'll have to make a list, of course. I suppose you'll need my help. Let's see…you'll need lots of parchment and a decent quill—" Harry procured them immediately, "—and, let me think, we'll get the owls later, once we've done the letters. Do you have envelopes on you?"

Harry shrugged. "Like, four?"

"Of decent quality?"

"What?"

Delicately, Draco stood up from his seat and waded through the pile of presents to settle himself down on the floor opposite Harry. "Look, do you want to tell the world that you're fabulously wealthy and are willing to accept offers of business of a suitable standard? Do you want to act poor – do you have an inheritance, don't you? So you can't be too badly off – or imply that the presents aren't really worthy of your attention? What's your angle here?"

Baffled, Harry stared around at the pile of presents he was swimming in, before meeting Draco's commanding gaze. "You can say all that with an envelope?"

"The envelope and the ink, and your handwriting and the parchment all work together to…" Draco paused. "Right. We'll start off with a quick and dirty tutorial on stationery, before we send away for some supplies that are suitable for your station. It's Christmas evening, so we'll have to send the owl off tomorrow morning, and should get everything you want owled back by tomorrow evening if you're lucky.

He gestured impatiently for Harry with his hand, who looked at it blankly for a second. "Oh." Harry handed over a stash of parchment and an envelope.

Draco turned them over in his hands. "This is all perfectly adequate for an average student of an average household, Potter, but you are neither. I'll help you order some appropriate stationery once we've had a better discussion.

"In the meantime, we'll start with opening your presents – you do that bit – while I write up the registry of who sent what." He whipped up the parchment and poised the quill over it eagerly. "Right, go ahead then. Speak clearly when you read out the greetings, if you please."

"What?"

"Oh, let's start this this one." Draco reached over to grab a large oblong gift from somewhere near the middle of the pile, and rattled it gentle by his head. "Oooh, something heavy in this one, Potter," he grinned. "Now, stop holding back and—"

"Hold on!"

"What?"

Harry reached over to retrieve the parcel, and careful went through the arsenal of spells that Arthur Weasley had taught him during the holidays.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking for curses," Harry said, head bent low over the unwrapped gift on his lap. "There's this spell I was taught to help me see magic, and then I need to…hang on…need to check the layers for anything dangerous. Mr Weasley pointed out once that anything could be sent to me by mail, and I'm not sure exactly what the Hogwarts wards block."

Draco looked astonished. "Not much, I shouldn't think." He watched Harry's wand silently dart though a series of spells, Harry's tongue sticking out a little in his furious concentration. "You can cast silently? Wait...you have to cast these spells on _every present here?_"

"Unless I wanna die or something," Harry muttered, blinking as the seeing-spell wavered and blurred in front of his eyes. His sight was much hazier now than it had been in July. Perhaps something to do with Hogwarts? Or magical overuse, Harry wondered absently, his wand still waving. A headache was beginning to threaten. "Every present? Yup."

"Can't you, I don't know, cast a generic something?"

"Bad idea," Harry muttered. "_Finite_'s the only thing that might work, and it's a big no-no, I hear."

"What? Why?"

Harry didn't answer.

Draco looked thoughtful. "Guess it's not all fun and games for the Boy-Who-Lived, after all."

Harry snorted.

Then, having confirmed that this first present seemed safe, Harry turned it over in his hands to find the greeting.

"'Dearest Harry,'" he read out loud, and then cringed from the intimacy. "'Thank you so, so much for all your sacrifices and suffering to rescue us from danger.'"

Draco scrambled back for the quill, but then spoke. "Oi. Don't get a big head about this now, will you?"

Harry snorted. "It seems alright. They go on to say, 'We know you never asked for this', that's not too bad. Oh wait, 'But Fortune has thrust this Fate upon your shoulders.' Ugh." He skimmed past the rest of the note rapidly. "They wish me a very Merry Christmas and hope that this small token of their appreciation might lighten my burden and bring joy unto my youth."

"…A bit pretentious," Draco mumbled unironically. "Who are they and what did they get you?"

"The Pollock family, from Godric's Hollow." Harry's eyes lingered on the note before he flipped the package over and tore the vibrant wrapping open. "The _Big Book of Broom Tricks,_ apparently."

"Never heard of 'em," Draco muttered, writing the name down carefully. "But the book's not bad – every wizarding kid gets one of them at some stage. You're catching up on your culture, Potter! A few years too late, but good for you! Now, hurry it up – we've got a lot to get through."

Harry took a moment to add the thank you letters and gift unwrapping onto his mental To Do list – it was getting longer and longer, and much more intimidating. His breath hitched in his chest.

"Alright," his strangled voice squeaked out. "One day at a time, right? This is fine, this is fine. Just add it to the plans."

Draco seemed completely oblivious to Harry's sense of looming doom as the world spun and wobbled around him.


	19. Presents and Ponderings

It was with resignation but no particular surprise that Harry found himself at Draco's mercy on Boxing Day. And the day after. And the days after that. He didn't know if Draco truly believed he needed guidance in opening his pile of Christmas presents or if it was just an excuse. There were a whirlwind of possible motivations that Draco might have, and Harry didn't want to overthink anything. He could do with the help, after all.

Aside from a cold bottom and the occasional waver in his vision, the situation didn't seem too bad.

For whatever reason, his old enemy had apparently taken it upon himself to educate Harry as to his social obligations. According to Draco, "Your earlier efforts were an improvement, I'm sure, on whatever you were doing before Granger got her claws into you. But it can't have been enough, of course, since neither of you actually know what you're doing. Now I know, it would be simply embarrassing if I left you so uninformed."

"Is that so?"

"Your previous performances were probably underwhelming if your usual attitude is anything to go by. I do hope you appreciate me. I don't help just anyone, you know."

Harry's head was bent over a gold and silver gift with little faces that sang carols at him. "If you say so," he mumbled.

Draco did say so. He had taken ownership of Harry's gift receiving, receipting and replying with all the gracious control of a drill sergeant. He didn't touch anything – certainly not. There was apparently "no need to be so positively gauche" about such things. Every gift was lovingly opened by Harry's own hands. Except for the dodgy ones. They got put aside for later.

Despite his suspect motivations, Harry was relieved to see Draco orchestrating the whole circus. He looked nothing like Hermione, but the precise instructions and the slightest hint of impatience – that he couldn't believe Harry needed to be told these things – were very reminiscent of studying with Hermione back in the day. It was curiously a rather nostalgic and comforting feeling.

While Crabbe and Goyle slept or snacked in an out-of-the-way corner of the room, Draco drawled instructions from his seat, scribbling down notes and making dry, often humorous comments on the occasional letter. Harry found, to his own surprise, that Draco Malfoy wasn't actually half the prick that Harry had always thought he was. He just liked to be in charge. Of everything.

Harry, being a much more mature wizard than he looked, didn't really mind giving Malfoy that impression.

Thus, while Harry sat cross-legged on the stone floor, presents surrounding him like a dragon's hoard, what once was an arduous task passed relatively painlessly.

While Harry developed a routine of inspecting his presents, reading out the greeting and sorting them into piles, the room was otherwise filled with the rustling of gift wrap, Draco's voice: dry, officious, often rather witty, and the cold scent of stone and dust that Hogwarts floors seemed to carry everywhere. Harry's capable hands, a little callused and rough at the fingertips, twirled his wand skillfully and grasped and pulled at presents rapidly. He was getting much better at the manipulating the spell weave, Harry realised, or perhaps his eyes were getting used to seeing through it. If a gift's spellwork seemed dodgy – and there were one or two, though not many – they went into a separate pile, unwrapped. Otherwise, Harry read out the greeting for Draco to note down, tore open the paper and tossed the present into one of a number of piles: for friends, acquaintances, strangers of a particular standing, professional associates… According to Draco, each pile would need a different style of response.

The mind boggled. Harry had never thought he would ever be so grateful to Draco Malfoy, of all people.

Harry shifted his posture occasionally, to find a place on his bottom that hadn't gone numb yet, but the sheer scale of the task was still his biggest complaint. It just seemed so monotonous.

It left his mind quite open to other, intrusive thoughts. Despite his best intentions, Harry couldn't stop himself from obsessing over what had gone wrong in the Chamber.

He'd almost died, Harry had realised, repressing the hand tremors while he worked through the latest present. He'd really _almost died_, and he'd walked into the Chamber with a whole set of wrong assumptions and a significant misunderstanding about his own abilities that really should have killed him.

While his fingers kept busy with spellwork, with unwrapping gift paper, and his mouth the occasional spell or response to Draco, Harry's mind was stuck turning over every little mistake he had made, every little decision gone wrong.

A pretty blue gift wrap with swirling clouds of gold fairy dust failed to distract Harry from the cyclical thoughts. "From Adalbert Spalding of Peterborough," Harry read out. "_The Unauthorised Biography of Windslow Kneen: Seeker Extraordinaire." _

Draco snorted. "And so it begins."

A suspicious number of quidditch related gifts did soon appear from the pile, to Draco's satisfied smirk. Harry didn't really see the humour. He was stuck in the spiral of self-doubt that had been looming over his head for days. He had to be better next time, he told himself. _Actually_ better next time. More than just saying it.

His chest felt tight and stuffy again for some reason, and Harry clutched at his torso tightly in between presents. His nails dug through the heavy fabric sharply and scraped up the skin on his chest. The pain helped a little bit; it brought him back into his body. He had uncountable presents to sort through, after all. Harry took a deep breath and went back to introspection.

He'd planned a lot, he acknowledged to himself while his hands moved quickly. Not enough, obviously, but not bad for the kid who'd relied on Hermione to do his thinking for him for seven years. Determinedly, he looked for the positives.

He'd researched the Basilisk, that was Harry's first thought. He'd known what he was getting into, he'd used research to address its weaknesses. He'd taken the roosters to utilise that knowledge. And not just one, either. Thirty! He'd thought it was overkill. He'd even prepared the mirror, just in case its own gaze was deadly to it. He'd borrowed that from Lavender weeks ago for that very purpose. He'd been thinking ahead!

"Oh, that one's mine!" interrupted his thoughts, and Harry jumped at the sudden intrusion of Draco's voice in his musings.

"What?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't say 'what', say 'pardon', Potter. Didn't your mother ever tell you n..."

Harry surfaced from his unwrapping routine and private musings to glance at Draco's pale face in confusion. He glanced down at the heavy gift in his hands, wrapped in Slytherin green with elegant silver ribbons. How utterly in character for a Malfoy.

Up in his higher seat, Draco looked discomforted for the first time in a while. "Potter," he enunciated very clearly. "Harry, I'm dreadfully sorry. I'd forgotten your mother was d-, um, not that I _forgot_, precisely, but...a jobberknoll ran away with my tongue, Harry. How awful of me. My deepest apologies."

Harry searched his memory carefully: he hadn't been paying much attention to Draco, who obviously had no idea. Oh, he'd mentioned his mother. Harry wasn't quite ready to discuss all of his very complex feelings about his parents with Draco Malfoy, even if they were becoming more friendly, but in this case he'd obviously meant nothing by it. Harry huffed in amusement

Harry shrugged. "It's just a figure of speech, Malfoy. I'll get over it."

Draco shot him a glare. "There's no need to be needlessly polite with me, Harry, I know it was uncalled for."

Harry paused thoughtfully. "It was a long time ago, Draco. I..." _still love them, don't remember them much, have spoken to their shades, have lost others more recently and more painfully, "_It's not your fault."

To Harry's amusement, Draco looked rather off-balance. "You, er, you don't mind that I mentioned...?"

Harry's fingers stroked the fine, satin ribbon that wrapped Draco's present thoughtfully. "I miss them, of course," he murmured, having never really had to verbalise his feelings before. "But I've been alone for more than ten years. I miss the _idea_ of having parents more than I miss _them_, I think." Harry scratched his head. "I don't remember what to miss, you know?"

Still subdued, Draco listened to Harry's musings with a baffled look on his face. Draco, of course, had been spoiled by his parents all his life.

"Alone? What about your muggles?"

Harry remembered where he was and who he was talking to. "Them? Never mind them. Just..." Harry shrugged, and the present on his lap tilted left so one corner stabbed into his thigh. Harry looked down at it. "Slytherin colours, Draco? Really?"

Draco snorted in soft amusement and let Harry change the topic. "I'm not surprised you lack my good taste." He raised one arch eyebrow. "If the wrapping doesn't amuse you, perhaps you might open the gift?" He picked up the quill again and poised it with a swish over a new line of script on the parchment. "Go on then."

Harry shuffled, gift wrap and fabric rustling, and decided against checking for curses. "'To Harry Potter,'" he read out. "'Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, Draco Malfoy.' Thoughtful."

Draco shot a glance his way, and Harry suddenly wondered if the boy wasn't more nervous than he was letting on.

"Short, succinct, and to the point," Harry continued evaluating the note. "And not about to give me a big head, either. A nice balance, I think."

"Stuff it." But Draco smiled.

Harry tore off the wrapping and Vanished it, to find himself staring at a fairly heavy textbook by William Wallace. "_A Wizard's Guide to Distraction, Diversion and Defence_. You got me a Defence textbook?"

Draco, to Harry's sudden irritation, looked unbearably smug and self-satisfied as he puffed his chest up and spoke with pride. "I was sure that after the unmentionable quidditch game, all your other gifts would be based off your broomstick. I feel the 'personal touch' makes better presents, personally."

"You remembered our conversation!" Harry marvelled as he turned the heavy book over in his hands. He'd spoken to Draco in the bookshop many months ago. The book was a good choice too; one he hadn't seen before and it looked rather fascinating. It would be useful. "You really thought about this!"

To Harry's delight, Draco's face turned a delicate shade of pink that made his pale eyebrows very visible. "I did what I could," Draco sniffed, "within the limits I was given. There were much better options if only you spoke French."

Some warm fizzed under his breastbone, and Harry realised that the tight, breathless feeling he'd been struggling with recently had temporarily gone away. Aside from everything else he was – possible enemy, future blackmail material, potential future spy – Draco was also...friendly. Genuinely. What a concept.

"Thanks," he said wonderingly, and then felt that the conversation was getting too mushy. "Cheers, Malfoy. But I won't go easy on you in the next quidditch game anyway."

"Git." Malfoy threw his quill at Harry's face and missed. It clattered softly against the floor, and then Draco had to get out his wand to spell it back to him.

"Brat."

"Pillock."

"Twat."

They settled down again into companionable industry, and as his hands got busy, Harry's mind sank once more into the same gloomy cycle despite Harry's best efforts.

He'd even had Fawkes in the plan, Harry thought determinedly. Of course, he hadn't come, had he? Even though it had worked with the Salamander hut. Harry wondered what had gone wrong – had he been wrong to ask for help? Could Fawkes just not hear him when Dumbledore didn't instruct it?

But he'd played to his strengths, Harry thought positively, drowning out that little pessimistic voice in the back of his head. Brought his broom, and his luggage, and his Cloak. Timed it well.

He'd been prepared, Merlin be damned!

That little scornful voice in the back of his head whispered on, sounding uncomfortably like Snape, that he hadn't thought enough though.

The box of chocolates that he'd just unwrapped clattered on the top of the pile as Harry's hands shook with the thought. He hadn't thought about what to do if his back-up, back-up plan needed a back-up plan, had he?

He'd be living on in wilful ignorance, the horrible little voice suggested quietly. Just because Fawkes had saved him in the Chamber last timeline, just because it had saved him from the Salamander Hut, he thought he could _command _it?

_Hubris_, Snape's voice whispered. Pride. Arrogance.

He hadn't thought about how to stop the snake escaping if his plan hadn't worked, had he? Harry gnawed at his thumb nail before he read out the next greeting for Draco's list. Hadn't researched how to _make roosters crow_, either. Sure, he might be an urban kid from years of habit, but the Weasleys kept chickens. A thirty second conversation with Mrs Weasley would have solved that problem without anyone being the wiser.

He'd planned ahead to stop the sewers collapsing. Well, the thought had occurred on time anyway, hadn't it? It hadn't been _ahead _per se, but it wasn't late either. But the very concept that _the Chamber itself_ could be damaged…he couldn't be blamed for that, could he? And he'd fixed it at the end! That had to count for something.

Harry clasped at his chest again, coughed. Found it didn't help, as the strange tightness continued to constrict his breathing.

He hadn't dropped his wand, either! That was a very good plan he'd had. Then he ran his hand through his hair in frustration because _not dropping his wand _wasn't really something a wizard should be proud of. That was the very basics of combat and survival.

He should have…should have found some better spells, or something. Not that anyone knew of anything that worked on Basilisks – there was nothing in the research, after all. But Harry had fought against dragons before. A dragon. And heard the crowd watching other people fight dragons, of course. So if he'd had his Pensieve, Harry could have borrowed some ideas from Diggory or Fleur or Krum! And be was doing his best on the Pensieve front, but you couldn't really put pressure on Master Enchanters in France, after all. Not even if you were the Boy-Who-Lived.

As something cold churned in his gut, Harry wondered where else he could have gotten powerful spells from. He was good at practical spell-work. Very good at everything he could cast. His Defence work would earn him a high N.E.W.T already, that's how good he was. And he could probably past a Charms N.E.W.T as well, despite missing his seventh year of school. But beyond school level? Well, Harry really hadn't had too much luck teaching himself spells beyond that. He'd gotten very good at everything someone else had already taught him, but…learning new magic? Alone? From texts? Secretly?

He'd have to look into it, Harry supposed with a frown. Gotta start somewhere, he assumed. Perhaps the Restricted Section, if he could sneak in without drawing attention. Surely he could plan that well enough to succeed. All he needed was a little bit of time alone.

It was well after midday when Harry next noticed the time. His small hoard of presents had not yet shrunk visibly, but the piles of unwrapped gifts were noticeably impressive. He blinked his eyes to refocus, and they made a squidgy sound when he did. They were sore. Stifling another sigh, Harry gazed down at his lap with apathy. The bright colours that danced behind his eyes wavered a little with his lack of focus and the magic aura of Hogwarts Castle. Harry refocussed his eyes with a squint. Was he pushing himself?

Probably, but he still had to work harder.

* * *

The following Tuesday, Draco finally put his master list down with a dignified nod, having shadowed Harry practically everywhere for the last couple of days. "Well done, Harry," — at some point in the past few days he'd become Harry — "you've done the first part pretty well, considering it's your first time."

"Wow, thanks," slipped out sarcastically. "Great encouragement there. Good job managing this complex project."

The tone went straight over the Slytherin's head. "I know. Your thanks are enough. Goodness knows where you'd be without me, after all. But at last you've unwrapped everything. Great work. Now all you need to do is write out all the thank you notes to everyone who sent you something."

Harry raised his eyebrows politely, and avoided rubbing his bruised-feeling butt. It was hard work setting on the stone floor for hours each day. "Naturally. Is that all? I…" he eyed the twelve towering piles of orderly gifts sceptically. "I only have to write _how many_ thank you notes?"

Draco fiddled a little bit with his roll of parchment, which pooled on his knees before falling to the Charms room floor. The rustling wasn't a completely intimidating noise. "A little over three-hundred, I should think. A worthwhile reception for your grand re-entrance back into the Wizarding World, really."

Harry paled. "Over three-hundred? And didn't I, I dunno, reenter the Wizarding World last year? When I started Hogwarts?"

Draco waved Harry down dismissively. "Well, you _came back_ last year, certainly. But this year you've really made your mark. That Quidditch match really brought you to people's attention. You've had the front page of the Prophet I don't know how many times, you've been interviewed by the Quibbler, haven't you? Although that might just be my misunderstanding…"

"No, no! No interviews!"

"Hrm," Draco raised an eyebrow. "I suspect my mother would recommend you gain more control over your representation in the media, if that's the case. And the _Potter Spotter_ column was thinking of closing down when you came back to school, did you know that? But you've given people enough to argue about that they've decided to keep it running."

Harry dragged his attention away from the very, very long list of names and focussed on Draco with dawning dismay. "Hang on, what's all this then? I mean, I've heard the term _Potter Spotter_ around before, but…what is it exactly?"

"You don't even know?"

Harry flinched guiltily at the remembrance that he had fallen back into a couple of bad habits; he was reading all the major articles in the Daily Prophet these days – even when they were boring. It was practically all of the first three pages! Of course, he wasn't reading all the adverts or opinion pieces…

"Oi, Vincent. Wake up!"

Vincent Crabbe stirred from his seat in the corner and stared at Draco with a very blank expression. "Wha'?"

"Tell Potter what the Potter Spotter thing is all about," Draco demanded imperiously. Draco called him 'Potter' when he was in trouble, apparently.

Crabbe shifted his simple gaze towards Harry. "It's the regular column," he explained in slow words. "For people who spot Potter."

Harry had avoided thinking about this too much, forcing the issue to the back of his mind, but now the concept had to be faced. He clenched one hand tightly, the knuckles on his fist turning white. "More precisely…?"

"People who think they've spotted Potter write in and share," Crabbe said. "Used to be filled with lotsa arguin' and theories. Draco used to read it. They mostly report on Hogwarts rumours about you now."

Harry shot an incredulous gaze Draco's way, who had the decency to colour red and look away. "You were my…fan?"

"No, no," Draco shook his head. "Just, you know, I used to keep an eye on you from afar. Make sure you were okay."

"But you didn't even know I was raised by muggles!"

"I didn't say it was a very accurate column, did I?" Draco defended. "You were all 'hidden away for your own protection' and 'inaccessible to everyday wizards' to keep you safe. I was doing my best."

"Are you…_quoting_…the Daily Prophet at me?!" Deep within himself, Harry found the concept very disturbing and tried forcibly to change the topic. Then the thought occurred… "Hang on, did this column run last time too?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did it run through…" third year, and the Tri-Wizard Cup, Harry wanted to ask, but then the words died in his throat. He was alone in his experiences, after all. No one knew he'd come back in time. No one was helping him. He felt completely alone.

He clutched at his chest a little again, trying to breath better, before forcing the thought from his mind. It probably hadn't, anyway. Draco had said something about it almost ending.

"Never mind." He flexed his fingers. "So…this letter writing business then?"

Draco perked up importantly. "Indeed. So, I've done some research for you, and at your age and with this volume, a dicta-quill is appropriate to help you out."

Harry hadn't even thought of the possibility that he might have to handwrite them himself, and sighed with relief now that the issue had been raised and addressed.

Draco patted a little leather pouch on the seat next to him. "Here's the parchment and envelopes you needed, specially ordered through _Scrivenshaft_. They're high-quality vellum, I'll have you know, so you can use this to write to just about anyone without worrying about injuring your reputation." Harry hadn't realised that this was something he needed to worry about until now, either. Draco continued. "I asked for some recommendations on ink colours too, what they thought would be appropriate for your situation, and they've given us a very nice maroon shade for free, as long as you promise to write them a letter that they can display in-store."

Harry added the chore onto his ever-growing To Do list, and swallowed loudly.

"Right."

At Draco's impatient gaze, Harry took his place at a desk properly and rubbed his hands on his knees with nerves.

"So, what am I writing here then? Dear Mrs So-and-so?" He reached out to grab Draco's master list and begin the dicta-quill charm.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Draco spluttered, alarmed. "Has no one ever talked you through the differences of address around here? When Madam is appropriate, when you use Lady, or Mistress or first names? Or for the men? Or…groups?"

Harry retracted his eager hands slowly, a small lump of cold settling into his stomach. He reached up to grasp the front of his robes, by his breast bone, once again. His lips seemed dry, so he licked them.

"Ah…No? You have, like, nobles here and stuff? Like Lords and Ladies, then?"

Distractedly, "No! Why would we need a muggle monarch to ennoble us? Our ladies and gentlemen belong to the landed gentry, and only the very rare individual deserves a courtesy title like..." Draco waved his hands frantically. "Never mind. Letter styles? Letter _formulae_? Modes of address to strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? Business partners? At the very least you know the difference between formal and informal language, right?"

Harry licked his lips again and gazed at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling, he noted carefully. There were some beautiful dark wood beams running across the ceiling lengthwise. He wondered absently if the house-elves polished the roof beams too, or if this choice was something done on Flitwick's part. They looked beautiful, even in the light of a cloudy Scottish day. He always had liked the Charms room. He looked down: he had a hangnail on the little finger of his right hand.

"How have you lived this far, Potter?" Draco exclaimed. Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Although Harry living didn't have much to do with etiquette, he didn't think.

As Harry refocused his vision on Draco, he saw to his surprise the poised blond boy gripping his hair hard and pulling. Small tufts of very soft, fine hair stuck up at angles from within Draco's fists: they shivered with the movement of his head. It was the least controlled Harry had ever seen him. Aside from the Battle of Hogwarts, of course.

"I don't…" Draco muttered. "Merlin's Beard, I don't even know where to _start_!"

He seemed to stare fixedly at a spot on the wooden desk before, before startlingly glaring at Harry's right shoulder. "My mother," he muttered to Harry's rising dismay. "I'll simply _have _to owl my mother."

The adrenaline began flushing through Harry's system again, his mind racing as the possible implications of the choice began to register. It was not that he didn't trust Mrs Malfoy, exactly. Madam Malfoy. Narcissa. Whatever he was supposed to call her. He didn't even think it was about liking her, or not. But in a couple of years, Lord Voldemort would be living at her house and he really didn't want to have her know lots of personal details about him, not to mention that Draco was becoming a kind of _friend_, and he didn't want anyone to get in any trouble…

Draco was still talking. "…there's whole _generations_ of information that are passed down by word of mouth, and without an official, established source your chances are practically infinitesimal that…"

Harry hit the desk in front of him accidently, then paused. "Wait."

"What now!?"

"Wait." There was a thought, just out of his grasp, almost there, that would allow Harry to escape this situation unscathed. And also possibly calm Draco down a bit, although that was just a fortunate coincidence. "There's a...almost got it…the library!" Harry exclaimed triumphantly.

"Excuse me?"

Harry sagged back in his seat as if he had just successfully fought off a hippogriff. "There are books in the library that will help."

Malfoy shot him a mildly insulting gaze full of disbelief and scepticism. "_That's_ your grand plan, Potter?"

Harry grinned, undeterred. "You don't get it. The Hogwarts library is _amazing_. I'll be right back."

* * *

He walked back into the Charms classroom where his presents still sat in piles almost thirty minutes later. Draco trailed behind him petulantly. The weather was still terrible, and the classroom was still on the colder side, but Harry's mood had taken a massive turn up.

"I still don't get why we had to go on an 'urgent walk' to the _library_," Draco complained. "You didn't even talk to Madam Pince. You did some spell work – did you see her scowl at you? I thought you'd be thrown out – and went through a bunch of shelves and you _aren't even explaining what you found_, Potter! What did I go on this long walk for, after all this?"

Harry glared a little at the blond boy who had followed at his heels for the last twenty-odd minutes. He huffed as Draco threw himself peevishly into the seat he had previously occupied, and gently tossed out a green-leather book with gold calligraphy on the cover. It thudded a little on the desk; it was heavier than it looked.

"Here you go. I knew I'd find something. _Essential Etiquette for Affluent Witches and Wizards _by Cornelia Crumplebottom."

"And one book is all you got." Draco reached out curiously and turned the book over in his hands. "Its cover looks promising, at any rate. You think this will help, then, Harry?"

He was back to being Harry again; that was a good sign. Harry plopped down on the seat next to Draco and lounged lazily over the desk. "Take a look at the index. It starts from the basics, and then it has a section on titles, and…" he waved his hands sluggishly and let his voice trail off. "Y'know. All the things you mentioned. I forgot some, but I think they're in there."

"You think," scoffed Draco, but he browsed the index carefully, one gentle finger running down the page with careful attention to detail. "You know Harry, you're a bit dim sometimes—" Harry raised his eyebrows, "—but this time I think you've outdone yourself. Here, have a read of this to start with."

Harry shuffled over to read at the instruction of his classmate and bent himself to the task.

"Right," said Harry a few hours later. "I've read the thing, I've taken your notes – since you insisted – and I've got all the stationery you think I'll need. Can I start now?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "For someone received a rather large favour, you're not very grateful now, are you?"

Harry choked on his words. "Look, I don't mean to seem ungrateful. You've taught me, like, an awful lot I never knew I needed to know about, and I really do appreciate the time and effort you've put into helping me out with, well…" He gestured aimlessly at the looming pile of presents.

Draco slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't take yourself too seriously, Harry. It's okay. Although we'll never mention this where other Slytherins might hear us, alright?"

"…Sure?"

"To the uninformed masses," Draco continued to explain, "I have taken extreme actions to eradicate you as a rival on the quidditch pitch, and now that my cunning plot has failed, I'm wrangling my way into your good graces to that I can take advantage of your future power and fame." He grinned. "It's best to do it while you're young."

"…Riiight."

"But I'm sure you knew that. Now, hurry up."

"Hang on a minute."

"What now?" Draco asked warily.

But Draco was too self-conscious this time. Instead of looking at Draco, Harry stared up at the window of the Charms room, where a large screech owl hovered majestically.

"I think I've got post," Harry mumbled, and jumped up to let the owl in.

Soon he smiled.

"What?"

"Never you mind," Harry beamed, suddenly feeling as light and joyous as a kitten in spring. He uncrushed the letter from where it had been pressed against his chest and carefully flattened it out. Then he slipped it into his breast pocket. "Everything's wonderful."

His Pensieve had arrived at Diagon Alley. The anticipation roared. His plans coming to fruition! His future at stake!

Harry couldn't wait.

* * *

To Harry's dismay, he was unable to escape Draco over the following week. The Slytherin – with his two sidekicks who were loyal if silent companions – kept insisting that Harry complete this thank you notes hastily, and they followed Harry everywhere from just outside the Fat Lady, to dinner, to the loo.

"Give me some space!" Harry tried finally. "You don't actually need to watch me pee here, do you?"

"Sorry," Draco murmured and backed away from where Harry had hitched up his robe hem. "But you might disappear again. I've finally got you leaving Gryffindor Tower at a reasonable time, so we should make use of the daylight hours. It's bad form to delay thank you notes, don't you know? You really should get them finished before Sunday."

Since disappearing was precisely on Harry's mind, he wasn't quite sure what to say, and shortly found himself dragged back to the parchment and ink.

"What time does Diagon Alley close?" Harry soon wondered out loud, and curiously Draco responded.

"Well, during this time of the year it varies somewhat depending on the day, but mos—wait. Are you going to Diagon? We're not allowed out of the castle until we're third years," Draco complained. "Do you know how to sneak out? Are you going to the shops? Can you take me with you? How are you going to get to London?"

"Nope, no, sorry," Harry quickly dismissed. "I was just thinking of, maybe some free time after dinner tonight?" he asked hopefully.

Draco glowered at the names, still unticked, on his list. "Not until you finish your notes," he insisted strongly, reminding Harry again of Hermione's stern attitude to study. "And don't you slack off. This is important, Harry."

Stifling the urge to snicker at the similarities in tone, Harry instead bent his head to focus and planned his great escape.


	20. Anticipation and Satisfaction

In between copious amounts of letter-writing on Harry's behalf, he and his new friendly acquaintances found time for some interesting chats. New Year's Eve, Harry soon learned from Draco, was commonly celebrated as Hogmanay by British wizards, and was more symbolic than simply the dawn of the new year. It had ties to both the winter solstice and Samhain, he was boldly informed, and was therefore a "much more traditional celebration for wizards than all these modern Christian customs – which are nevertheless an important addition to wizarding culture", or so he was told with authority.

"So it's just New Year's Eve, but by a different name?" Harry asked.

"Of course not!" Draco had strong opinions about wizarding culture and its proper appreciation. "I mean, the feasting and drinking and gift-giving and all that is very nice, but unlike Christmas, Hogmanay connects us to the magic of the land. It connects the people to their place and – of course, brings luck."

"Of course," Harry echoed blankly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's the first-footing, you muggle." The insult was less blistering than it could have been. "Visiting begins after midnight, and you gift symbols of salt for friendship, or coal for warmth, spirits for good cheer, et cetera, et cetera, and get food in return. It's all very symbolic and meaningful. The saining is also...You know what? Find yourself another book from the library; I can't be held responsible for telling you _everything_."

Although it took him a while, being otherwise obsessed about getting to his Pensieve without notice, Harry eventually realised that Hogmanay may be his chance to retrieve his treasure. Once the thought struck, he found his way to the library for a quiet, solitary read. What were these traditions, after all? It took him a little time to find the right section, but eventually a hefty red book was tipped off the shelf and lay heavy in his lap. Dust billowed out when Harry cautiously cracked the spine and the slightest grey film coated his fingertips as he ran an eager finger down the index. He parsed the yellowed pages eagerly. This might be it; his way out.

Diagon Alley probably wasn't open at midnight, of course, but this visiting thing that happened afterwards sounded like it might go on for a while, and so the Floo connections from pub to pub might be open all night too. Using them, Harry could get to London and back as the shops first opened, unnoticed. Assuming he could get out of Hogwarts.

Of course, Harry pursed his lips, even in his Invisibility Cloak Draco could find him once he opened the Fat Lady's portrait. He never knew how early Draco would be there waiting. So, Harry reasoned, he had to get out and back again while making it look like he'd just slept in.

Without making use of the Fat Lady's portrait, Harry couldn't use any of the secret passages. Harry tapped the tome thoughtfully. There must be a way out of the tower without them. He was a descendant of the Marauders, after all. Surely all it would take was motivation. Currently, that was Harry's greatest strength.

Nerves tingling, easily distracted, and again with that strange pressure in his chest, Harry waited for Hogmanay to begin, and began to plan his way away from supervision.

He was going to pick up his Pensieve. Harry was sure that his arms were trembling, even though it didn't look it. There was a thrumming tension travelling through his nerves_. Almost. Almost._

* * *

It was six thirty when Harry got up on January first, which was well before Scotland's true dawn. Frankly it felt like a perfect start to his plan, but Harry had discovered that motivation was not enough to get him out of the tower after all: he needed creativity too. Unsurprisingly, it turned out, previous generations of students – he wondered briefly if one of them had been his father – had already attempted to sneak out of the dormitory windows using broomsticks, and teachers had obviously made attempts to stop them.

There were spells, Harry had discovered, that stopped things flying out of the tower. He cracked open the catch slightly and forced the frame as far open as it would go. He could poke a finger out with no problem and even his head, but the small pebble he tossed at the gap in the glass bounced off invisible barriers and hit Harry's shoe with a smug kind of rattle.

Harry promptly tried climbing onto the window ledge himself to tip his whole body out, but as he hitched his other knee up onto the windowsill, Harry found his forehead pressed against something stretchy but solid. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, Harry pondered, as his head pushed forward and was then repelled back gently. It felt a little bit like being stuck in Aunt Petunia's plastic wrap stuff: cool, soft, a little bit stretchy. But it did stop him getting out of the dorm.

Harry huffed. He dropped back off the windowsill with heavy footsteps and took a large step away from the wall. Then Harry stared around the familiar room with critical eyes: he'd never tried anything unusual in _this_ room before, and the familiar space looked a little unfamiliar as he looked at it from a different perspective. Larger and smaller, cluttered, beloved, more magical than his everyday life in it implied.

After a moment, Harry spun his wand. "_Occuluseo_."

He had to do it very carefully, because Mr Weasley had warned him about the magic ambient in Hogwarts proper, and the spell blossomed in his eyes and bloomed slowly stronger as Harry carefully adjusted its strength. Then he promptly wondered if Mr Weasley was supposed to teach him _occuluseo _at all, because when he looked at Hogwarts herself for the first time through its lens, the weave of the magic revealed every spell that had been cast on the room.

Light radiated.

Hogwarts was awash with magic, layers and layers of the most delicate weave. Colours shimmered, others glowed. More flickered with a light barely there. Hogwarts Castle, Harry realised, thrummed with living magic that seeped through her every pore. Delicate tracings of colours illuminated the walls, arced through the stonework. The bare stone of the boys' dorm was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

He took a moment to catch his breath with sheer delight.

When a moment passed, Harry remembered to breathe and redirect his eyes to the high gothic windows. Unlike the stone walls, which were enchanted with slow, steady magics and enduring enchantments, the wards fizzled and hissed like a living thing – it was probably the wards, Harry rationalised, rather than the glass itself. Magic pooled around the window ledges like spilt milk, but the glass itself was covered in weaves like spiderwebs, snowflakes, and gossamer.

Poking at the translucent barrier slightly with his wand, the magic wavering in his sight, Harry figured that with a little bit of focus he could probably break the charm on the window and be free to leave.

It was becoming easier to use the seeing-spell, Harry realised mildly, especially after casting it on so many presents.

But there was a new kind of tendril woven into the weave, and blue kind of magic that Harry wondered might be an alarm. He decided to avoid it. Just to be safe.

Then he huffed, because what point was marvelling at the magnificence of a window charm if he still couldn't break it to sneak out?

Harry backed away from the window and scowled in frustration.

There must be a secret way out of the dorm. He wished for a moment that he could access the Room of Requirement from here, but the passageways could only open if you started from the seventh floor.

He rolled his eyes. It was easy to have ideas around here, but somehow he still struggled with implementing his plans.

When he happened to look up, the _occuluseo_ still active, a smallish bright glow at the highest point of the wall caught his eye. Harry blinked. A much smaller window was embedded in the stone, barely a window if you were cataloguing them.

It was a tiny circle, not even a foot in diameter. He had never before spared it a thought.

But, Harry recalled to his own surprise, this was the owl window for post in the dorm – a special little gap in the walls that post owls could fly through. Not uncharmed, he noticed, the colours still bright on his eyes, but _barely_ charmed, which might be good enough.

Harry gazed up with a squint while he contemplated the tiny little window. The cold draft from the window in front of him ruffled his hair and Harry smelled the fresh scent of pine and snow and dawn. He shivered. His mind felt alert.

The owl window, Harry noticed thoughtfully, was nowhere near large enough for a student to pass through. In fact, from where Harry stood a few feet away from the base of the wall, he couldn't even see the sky through the stone frame, it was that small. Owls had to retract their wings through it. It was practically invisible to student eyes. It was easily overlooked, and that was probably why it was far less protected.

Harry stepped over beneath the promising little gap and craned his head to look up. Unlike the other windows in the room, this one was way out of reach. It was not made for light, but for entry.

He pursed his lips.

Taking stock of his current accoutrements, Harry glanced down at himself thoughtfully. In one hand he held the smooth, warm wood of his broomstick handle to travel with, and in the other his holly wand. The trusty little school trunk was already bobbing obediently behind Harry's back, but with his new plan the sizes wouldn't work.

He took a moment to reorganise himself busily. Things went into the trunk to stay behind, certain things came out. Then, Harry licked his lips once and carefully raised his wand.

He fixed his eyes on the little window, eyebrows scrunched and focussed very, very carefully.

He'd never before attempted full-body transfiguration at all, even at such a simple charm as this. A frisson of tension tingled down his spine.

Harry breathed in once, deeply. Slowly, gently, he huffed the air out, shoulders sinking, tension relaxing; "_Reducio_," Harry murmured, and he felt his body begin to shrink. There was a moment of the expected pain in his shoulders and hips.

Then colours surged across his vision in waves and tilted like the world was a kaleidoscopic and Harry was tumbling in it. Layers of reds and blues and golds washed across his eyes. Harry was drowning in a torrent of pure magic.

A riot of colour and magic danced across his pupils; Hogwarts walls flared with magic, but Harry's eyes were sinking in the colours of his own power: closer, living, vibrant, and surging _through_ his brain. Magic roared across his eyeballs, pooled in his mind, washed and stretched and raged across his sight.

Something changed behind his eyelids; a small stretch somewhere that Harry didn't think was normally stretchable. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Throat tight. Palms suddenly sweaty.

There was a disjunction with his bodily sensation: limbs shorter, the expected pain, but something _more_... Harry realised, dismayed: he'd cast magic _on himself_ while the _occuluseo_ spell was still active.

Arthur Weasley's warning echoed in his ear: _medi-witches__ can't do much for blindness caused by magic itself._

Deathly cold fingers ran down his spine; Harry froze. Colours flared. He saw spots in hues and shades he couldn't recognise.

A little voice inside; _stopstopstopstopstop_.

His wand twitched and with another surge, a maelstrom of magical colour the likes of which he had never imagined, the shrinking stopped.

Gasping, Harry felt his heartbeat thundering in his ears, every bit as urgent as it had been when he faced the giant snake. His chest heaved in short, gasping breaths. Pain stabbed through his forehead. He blinked in a daze, vision wavering in and out: sometimes all he could see were the bright weaves of magic, sometimes cold stone, sometimes nothing.

Harry closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. He fought his way back towards that still pool of Occlumency, of silence and peace. His body resisted, magical surges still racing around his body. Harry seemed hypersensitive to them, like little shocks or sparks or waves that pushed against the inside of his skin.

Something tingled above his lip. Still blind, Harry dabbed it with the back of his hand. Tasted like salt and rust: smelled like blood. He was dizzy.

His brain felt tired. There was an overstretched feeling that seemed vaguely familiar.

Harry still fought for his centre; grasping, he reached the inside of himself and quietened. His magic calmed, settled. His panic slowed, stilled, stopped.

Harry waited, eyes closed, as the surging feeling of being lost at sea faded, as the drip of blood from his nose slowed and stopped, as flashes of light and darkness rushed across the back of his eyelids and then faded into the usual soft darkness of his own skin. The roaring in his head calmed. Gasping breath slowed, softened. Harry's heartbeat returned to its usual pace. The ringing in his head became manageable.

The ground was firm beneath his feet.

Cautiously, Harry blinked open one eye and glanced down at his body and the wand in his hand.

There was light. Normal light, of the Hogwarts' lamps and early morning grey.

Through the headache, Harry catalogued his body. He could still see, that was a good sign. He had shrunk, that was also quite good news: the spells had done what he'd meant them to. With smaller hands, the broomstick in his left felt slightly rougher than before, with larger grains in its handle.

Harry opened his other eye.

He paused, breathed.

He was fine.

After the fuss and the panic, Harry stumbled backwards to his bed and had to perch there for a moment and feel the rough blankets with his fingertips. His feet sat firmly on the floor, grounding him. The familiar smell of his own scent on his blankets, the dust in his bed hangings, the scent morning snow and his own sweat drifted around him, and slowly Harry began to have faith in his own body again. Then he sniffed. Once more he dragged a hand under his nose and it came back streaked rusty brown; had his blood-nose stopped? He sniffed experimentally again: nothing seemed broken, at any rate. He seemed, Harry dared hope, fine. With a roll of his shoulders, he forced himself to breathe tension out and relax.

Despite all that, it took Harry a moment longer to gather his nerves. Feeling his way physically with his palms, Harry leaned over to help himself to a chocolate frog and patted himself down before the tremors in his hands stopped.

But the Pensieve, the plan, must go on.

When he levered himself up to his feet, muscles still soft and protesting the movement, Harry compared himself briefly to the broom in his hand. It stood firm at his left, pressing strongly against the floor like a walking stick. Its warm wood seemed to stabilise Harry in the unpredictable world. Standing next to it, leaning his weight on the broomsticks' familiar form, Harry noted that he had diminished precisely as much as he'd meant to. He recentred his posture, leaning away from the solidity of the broomstick to stand on his own two feet once more. The floor no longer heaved like he was on a boat at sea. Harry was glad: with his legs feeling as soft as they currently did, he couldn't really handle much of a challenge. Then he shrugged his shoulders firmly – once, twice, thrice – as he took up a stance below the small window once again.

He was short on time, and he'd been called stubborn before.

Then with one more quick glance up to take measure of the owl entrance, Harry extended the shrinking charm a little bit more, this time with his eyes closed and no other spells active. His hypersensitive body felt the magic wash through him and Harry fought for more control he'd ever before needed. Slower, he told himself, and his magic unfurled with more finesse than ever, exactly as much as was needed and not one iota more. The surging, tingling pain within his muscles slowed, the burning pain of hypersensitivity diminished until a reasonable level of intensity was reached. Harry held on for one more long moment while his muscles contracted and bones folded in on themselves millimetre at a time...

Ending the spell with a silent twist of his wrist, Harry recast the _occuluseo _and climbed up on his suddenly oversize broomstick to rise slowly, gently to the height of the exit. Despite his heart racing, everything was fine; it was only Harry's overactive mind that now made him feel off balance. It was only the sudden normalcy in the wake of such stormy magic that left him reeling.

His feet lifted slowly off the ground; Harry found his balance on his broom; his many years of practice bringing his mind further back into balance, following the balance of his body. Harry settled his weight evenly into the cushioning charms and drifted slowly upwards, not an inch out of place. The little window glowed and beckoned above. He reached it quickly, body bobbing not far from the dormitory's ceiling. There were a few spiders up here, Harry noted absently, dark spots against the magic of the walls. Then he drifted forward on the broomstick, as light as a feather, until one small hand could reach forward to pat the shimmer in the window.

The _occuluseo_ showed him precisely which charms had been cast in a gentle weave of yellows and oranges, and there was nothing at all to stop a small human from passing.

Harry inched forward carefully, slowly, delicately, his feet lifted behind him and curled up, torso tilted forward so he could duck through the small frame. With barely a whisper, his tail-twigs scraped by the window boundary and Harry's sight-spell could finally be finished as he sat up.

One quick _engorgio_ later, and a normal-sized Harry was breezing down towards Hogsmeade to join in the early morning revellers, his head clearing rapidly.

Dozens of bodies would be jostling in and around the pubs and bars; one more would hardly stand out. Hopefully he'd make it before Draco missed him, but either way, no eyes would know where he'd gone.

* * *

Harry had made the trip from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade village more times than he could count, but sneaking out alone on New Year's day on a broomstick before seven o'clock in the morning was a new one.

The weather, fortunately for him, had settled down from the overwhelming snowstorm that had washed the castle in white for the past fortnight. Instead, as Harry flew through the morning air, a calm post-storm peace shrouded the highlands. His jitters settled down as the adrenaline of before washed away, just like it always did when Harry was on his broom. Instead, Harry became aware of his nose as it began to throb in the cold. Harry rubbed it with gloved hands as he flew silently through the Hogwarts main gate and turned down the hill to fly down the main road, towards the train station and in the direction of Hogsmeade.

The wind was unsurprisingly chilly, and it didn't take long for the rest of Harry's body heat to be stripped away in the morning temperatures. He spared a moment to wish he'd put on his quidditch gear before getting on his broom. Wizarding winterwear and heavy cloaks were all well and good until a blast of chilly air breezed down your robe collar and all the way down.

He slowed his pace, taking his time to regain his equilibrium and for his body to acclimatise.

In the dawn, Harry's eyes drifted. While the shade of the forest loomed over the road, the drifts of snow were banked up under low branches. Above them, sprinkled like a blanket, snow coated the trees. Snow also lay over the road, unblemished by footsteps or carriage-wheels, and it promised pristine white when the sun rose.

Until then, Harry's path was rather dim in the early morning. Despite the sky gradually greying and a few early birds calling out in the dawn, down near the forest the shadows lay heavy and dark. Harry flew through it like a silent shadow, absorbing the peace, breathing the calm.

The Great Lake, Harry knew, was a body of water much longer than it was wide, and the opposite sides of one end were bracketed by Hogwarts castle and the village below it. As he flew towards it, he could see flashes of dark water between trees when they thinned out a little. Snatches of dull silver streaked on the lake where the deep waters were catching the promise of light. Closer to Harry, the glimpses of lake became darker and still. The ice on the shoreline made barely a crackle as the temperature rose gradually with the coming day.

Harry enjoyed the surreal feel the cold, empty air.

He soon flew past the dark train station with no one the wiser, and shortly thereafter found himself alighting in the shadow of a Hogsmeade house on the fringe of the village. It was, by all accounts, the private residence of someone he didn't know, and Harry had never planned to start walking when barely in the town.

But, to his astonishment – although he shouldn't be surprised, really – many of the buildings were lit up with cheerful brightness, and the snowy road had many footprints already trekked into its surface. The early morning peace was broken by cheerful voices and snatches of song.

"The first-footing," Harry recalled with surprise. And possibly the saining too, if the noises from a street or two over were any indication.

Pulling his hood up to warm up his freezing ears, Harry stepped quickly in the direction of his goal.

It was but a few minutes work to squeeze past early morning revellers, who greeted him raucously and indiscriminately from their little huddles on the streets. He passed groups of people in warm robes making their way into houses, others merely grouping under the gaslights and warming themselves with alcohol and mirth.

Pushing past them, Harry made his way quickly to the _Three Broomsticks_, where to his astonishment a bunch of senior students were partying in the light and the warmth. In the alcoholic haze and scent of woodfire there were others that Harry didn't recognise, but many he did. A smattering of people were outside; at least one of the figures smoking a pipe was a student that Harry could see.

But more seniors were inside with their tankards and smiles and cheer.

Harry quickly stepped into the shadow of the fireplace and tugged his hood closer around his head. Some of these people would certainly know he was not supposed to be here.

Yep; that dark-haired boy with the – was that fire whiskey? – was definitely the Head Boy. Next to him was one of the Ravenclaw Prefects and – Harry glanced quickly around the throng of people near the bar while his nose defrosted and fingers began to thaw – that seemed like half the Kettleburn Club by the dartboard. They were clearly having a party with more alcohol that their professors would approve of. Harry wondered what Bill Weasley had got up to in school, that his mother was never aware of.

Harry was highly amused.

There was a raucous burst of laughter from somewhere deeper into the room, and Harry swore he heard the nasal voice of that Pritchard guy guffawing pretentiously with some friends.

It took Harry only a moment to throw down some Floo powder and step out of the hearth at Tom's _Leaky Cauldron_.

* * *

Harry stepped out of the green flames with a nod and smile to Tom, who barely had time to notice him through the throng of people meeting and mingling in his pub. Hogmanay greetings were also happening in the Leaky, although this revel seemed less of a traditional practice and more of an excuse for alcohol to Harry's untrained eye. He forced his way through the smokey room and out to the brick wall beyond to make his way to the Alley just before shops opened at seven.

Diagon Alley proper was really rather quiet, the usual pedestrians and early morning workers being more-or-less otherwise occupied with all-night parties apparently still rocking on with some energy.

His footsteps were crisp as he broke the new snow with his strides. One or two wrapped up figures were out on the street by their shop doors, sweeping away the snow and clearing the cobblestones, but Harry strode past them without stopping. He only wanted one thing, after all.

Harry found himself outside _Wisacre's Wizarding Equipment_ shop ten minutes before the store opened. He had to cross his arms and stamped to stay warm while the dark figure inside shuffled around, presumably setting the store up for opening. Harry waited impatiently, often breathing into his hands, until the dingy little doorway was unlocked with a click. Fortunately, his warm winter cloak had kept most of the snow off him, and when he'd previously pulled his deep hood up he'd also managed to conceal his face.

"Morning!" the little old shopkeeper nodded, his nose a merry red, as Harry walked through the door shaking snow off his shoes as he did so. "What can I do for you today, sir?"

"I'm here to pick up my Pensieve," Harry stated. "I got your letter a while back saying it had come in."

"Pensieve?" the old man stared as the door swing shut with merely a cheery tinkle of bells. He peered towards Harry's hood with a squint. "Are you Mr Potter then? You're looking a bit different to when I saw you last. What's been happening to you, eh?"

"Mr Potter," Harry agreed. "It's been a busy couple of years." He sniffed curiously at a strange smell that drifted through the shop floor. The cluttered shop floor had the faint and unusual scent of juniper-scented smoke that lingered in the air. The…_saining_, Harry wondered? Or some other part of Hogmanay rituals?

"You're looking very dapper," the shopkeeper continued. "And you're sure you're not related to Harry Potter, you say? You look the right age, now I look at you closely."

"Nope," Harry answered a bit too quickly. He stepped backwards and tugged his hood further forward nervously. "I know I'm a bit short, but I'm nineteen, I promise." He wasn't lying, Harry reassured himself. He was mentally nineteen even if his body was younger.

He smiled at the man with more confidence: he really didn't want to face a Boy-Who-Lived fan this early in the day.

"Hrmm…" the man raised an eyebrow, but then thankfully changed the subject. Harry wondered if perhaps the little old man had also been at a Hogmanay gathering and had come back to work a little drunk. "Yes, well, your little beauty arrived in some time ago. I thought you'd be here earlier. Just let me go fetch it."

He pottered off into a back room for a moment, then returned with his hands full with a hefty burden.

"Here we go." He gently eased the weight down onto the countertop and unwrapped the brown paper with a breathy sigh of wonder. "Ahhhh. There you are. Exquisite. Just look at that runework, the polish, the shine! This is a masterwork, I tell you, and no mistake."

"Huh," Harry breathed, and leaned over to eye his new purchase greedily. The pale stone gleamed in the low light of the shop, and he reached out one trembling finger to glide it softly down the smooth, perfect curve. "It's beautiful." His eyes lingered on the perfection of the bowl; it held such fascination and promise and possibility...

The man nodded wisely. "Perfect for every sweet memory cherished. We at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment exist to satisfy your every equipmental need. Telescopes, scales, orreries – "

"Yes, thanks," interrupted Harry, having heard the spiel before. It didn't work.

" – and phials, furniture or mirrors, sickles or knives, and baskets, and bookshelves, and Pensieves and more!" the man concluded with triumph.

The spiel had evolved, Harry discovered.

"How much do I owe you?"

"After your deposit? One hundred and eight galleons, fourteen sickles, and three knuts remaining, including the international delivery fee."

"Right." Harry counted out the money from his mokeskin pouch and placed it in piles on the counter.

"Now, how are you getting this beauty back home?" the man inquired genially.

Harry tugged forward a pouch spelled with an undetectable extension charm and pulled the neck of the pouch open with a flex of his muscles. It was but a brief moment, while the old shopkeeper looked on nosily, but he manoeuvred the Pensieve in without any help and settled it securely in the enchanted space. All he needed now was to transfer it back into his trunk, and he'd be free and easy.

Harry couldn't wait.

"You obviously know how to use it, of course," the man nattered cheerfully, just as Harry was turned to leave. "Couldn't help you at all with that myself, o'course."

Harry's eye twitched. His footsteps halted.

"…Of course?"

"Of course y'do." The little old shopkeeper leaned unsteadily against his shop counter and absurdly tapped one finger against the side of his nose. "Of course y'do."

Harry's eyes flickered. "That's right. Of course I do. I know all about them. The err…the spell for memory extraction…?"

"Ooh, it's a spell, is it? Well, what d'you know. It'd be bloody awful trying to find someone how to tell you how t'use these things, if you didn't already know. Damn rare, they are. Lucky you're all sorted then, aye?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded blankly. "Right. Of course." He left the shop with a strange solid feeling in his stomach and a tightness in his chest.

* * *

Harry walked back through Hogsmeade around daybreak, or so he assumed, since the sun could not be seen from behind the clouds. Either way, it was light enough and bright enough for the locals to be out on the streets for more than just partying, and so the roads were busier and shop doors were ringing with custom.

As he paced quickly on, Harry wasn't quite sure what his mood was. After all, he'd been waiting for months on end for his Pensieve to be delivered.

Only now, finally, could he really compare both his timelines and make more educated decisions. He could see what was coming. He also rather hoped that he could cut back on the amount of revision he needed – if he reviewed what facts he'd already been taught, and went over the books he'd already read. The anticipation was incredible.

But at the same time, Harry had to admit as he left the _Three Broomsticks_ again through its busy door, perhaps the Pensieve wasn't going to be the cure-all he had hoped for.

That familiar cold feeling in his stomach had settled in; the solid, hard lump of rock resting in his gut promised bad things would come. Harry clutched his left hand protectively over his belly as he walked through the crowd, wavering between optimism and pessimism.

Was it worry he was struggling with? Was it foreboding? Mere uncertainty? Harry wasn't quite sure.

He was quite caught up in his thoughts until he reached end of the main street near the Great Lake. The party of Hogwarts students had splintered up apparently, and this lot had moved their group. Now a bunch of them were standing near the shoreline throwing rocks in to break up the ice.

They were dumb, Harry thought fondly as he walked towards them and envied their carelessness. No worries of war or of prophecy or death for them.

Their loud, cheerful voices carried clearly on the wind, and all of a sudden, Harry was intensely jealous of their joyous oblivion. Hadn't their parents ever told them that Voldemort might return? Didn't they know there were orphans out there with no parents, and clinging on to hope? Why could they do dumb things for fun, when Harry was stuck using his holidays to plan to save Britain? When was the last time he laughed with that much innocence?

Harry stamped his feet and fought off the thoughts. It wasn't their fault they were sheltered.

Determinedly cheerful, Harry took out his gloved hands and cupped them before his mouth. A few puffs of warm air would help warm them, he hoped. Draco would be back in the castle whining for him, if he was up yet. There would be good food and cheerful house-elves in the kitchens. There was no reason to be slow. It was cold out, after all, and the faster he got back to Hogwarts the faster he'd be warm. His grand plans were waiting.

He stamped his legs and strode quickly.

Harry needed a hot bath. Possibly three. All his hopes for his plans could finally come together.


	21. Lies of Convenience

**Note: Apologies for the sudden silence. Now that I'm back at work, updates will slow down a bit, but I won't let the story go until it's finished or I am. I promise.**

* * *

Even after he made it back into the castle and warmed up, Harry's mood did not improve. He was busy trying to organise his new purchase, which turned into a mission to organise his trunk compartments, and he had barely snuck back into the boys' dorm before he was pelted by owl after owls.

They hooted irritatingly every time he popped his head out of the trunk. They called out unceasingly and occasionally tried to fly into the opening of whichever compartment he happened to be in. At one of them had wicked-long claws.

Everything else aside, Harry did _not_ want anything to damage or dirty his Pensieve, and the ongoing threats to its safety had him simmering in fond frustration. Malfoy was sending messages to pester him again, and he really didn't want to spare the time right now catering to his whims.

Admittedly, it would be fabulous weather for a midwinter quidditch game, but Harry had other priorities.

When the fifth owl flew into his face to peck at his glasses, Harry threw his arms up in frustration.

"Fine then," he scowled. "Young master Malfoy must be satisfied, apparently."

He took the letter off the latest messenger and told it to wait. He skimmed the letter.

"Hope you're not trying to avoid me...yada-yada-yada…better not have snuck out without inviting me, blahblah…whatever."

Harry summoned over a quill and scratched out a response to Draco on the other side of the parchment.

_No particular thanks for waking me up_, Harry scrawled messily. _I'm not feeling great and am going to try sleeping all day today to get over it. _He felt no particular guilt at the thought of lying to Draco. Selective truths were part and parcel of spending time with Slytherins, he'd discovered. _Please pass on my apologies if I don't make it to dinner._

_Harry_

Having made his excuses, Harry returned to his task, finally positioning the Pensieve in pride of place in the centre of his library space.

Having done so, Harry stood back and stretched his spine. Something clicked softly and he felt his muscles ease.

"Not bad," he thought, a critical eye surveying the room. The two-foot-wide basin sat flat on the ground, not looking unlike a fancy firepit. "A little more left, perhaps?"

Returning to his knees, Harry dug his toes into the floor and thrust. Straining his muscles, Harry slowly pushed the heavy stone basin a little to the left side. When that seemed too far, he pushed it back right.

Clicking his neck, Harry rocked back on his heels to evaluate his work. The Pensieve was clean of dust and looked quite dignified, sitting there in the middle of the uncarpeted floor. Subtle runes edged the bowl, and shadows played over the delicate carvings. The whole effect was of dignity and sombreness.

Harry was filled with buoyancy and pride at the thought that he owned such a beautiful work of art, and he took the opportunity to pace around it slowly. In the dim lighting of his trunk compartment, the Pensieve was nevertheless magnificent from every angle he viewed it from.

He ran his hands through his hair. "Incredible."

He finally owned it. At last.

After brushing his hair and taking a moment to polish his wand to a gleaming finish, Harry felt he had proven that he wasn't stressed or worried about using the Pensieve at all. His hands were firm and steady, and if it was unusual that he put so much effort into his hair and wand-maintenance, well, it was about time, wasn't it?

He sat there cross-legged and comfy, on the floor of his compartment, until his hair stopped catching on the comb, and his wand stopped streaking brown marks on the pure white linen he finally wiped it with.

He was calm and collected.

Then he set his things aside and leaned forward over the Pensieve, rubbing his hands roughly against his knees.

The moment of truth.

Carefully, Harry took up his gleaming wand and turned it gently over in his hand. He could give it a go now, he encouraged himself. There was no reason to wait, he thought positively. After all, trying it out would only be natural.

Edging up towards the bowl, rising to his knees, Harry knelt, looking at the object before him blankly. Well, it looked right. There was the stone basin, looking functional. And the runes and things that would make it work. It was all very professional looking. Nice and enchanted.

Guaranteed quality.

And here he had his wand. Everything he needed for memory extraction! He'd seen this done so many times, by Snape, and by Slughorn. And…Dumbledore? He knew they had watched the memories together, but had they already been in the Pensieve? Harry couldn't remember.

But. Clearly it was easy.

He unclenched his fists slowly and raised his wand to ear-height and, after the merest of hesitations, pointed the tip towards his own head. He breathed out slowly but the tension didn't drain. Meticulously, Harry thought of a strong memory. That horrible moment when Cedric was killed in the graveyard, that would do. It was one of his worse memories still, after everything. He still had clashes of recollection in those moments between sleeping and waking. He couldn't wait to get rid of it…

His wand hovered just over his ear, and he started to concentrate…

Then Harry stopped. Hermione would try something less important first, just to be safe. It was the mature thing to do, really.

Harry cast his mind back for a few moments, eventually recalling the moment during Dudley's eleventh birthday where they all piled into the car. He remembered the heat, Dudley's superior look, the sour smell of Piers' exhalation and sneers. That flailing arm which somehow got his kidney. Harry's eyebrows crinkled even in remembrance. On the off-chance that something went wrong, he would never miss that.

He brought the wand back up to his skull and concentrated on moving the memory.

Harry closed his eyes. Opened them. Scrunched them once more.

As the pressure of his knees dug into the floor, Harry bit his lip with slightly more force than he had intended. No one had ever said anything when he watched them do this before. Perhaps a little intent, a magical push, might be all it took? He was half in an Occlumency trance and breathed slowly while his body worked.

Harry poked around in his mind for a bit, just to get the memory moving, then slowly and carefully began drawing his wand away from his head, concentrating all the while.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something silvery and bright stretch between his head and his wand tip. A dazzling, silver wire –

There was an almost audible snap.

The memory returned to his mind with force, bouncing around for a bit and Harry's eyes felt bruised. A headache. Strange colours danced in front of his eyes for a lurching moment.

On top of this morning's mistake, it was more than he could simply absorb. Harry felt himself reel with dizziness. A roar of pain crashed through his head, more indescribable colours flashed before his overused eyes and Harry felt a long moment of utter disorientation.

When he blinked, the realisation occurred to him that the room… wasn't precisely spinning. His ears were ringing, his balance was gone, and Harry realised from the painful pressure on his knees that he was, apparently, listing helplessly left. Tilting, toppling…His left arm snapped out to hit the floor and he righted himself with furious concentration.

Harry took a few deep breaths – mind over matter, and all that; a small thing like this couldn't get in his way – and then tried again. This time he was careful not to lose focus as he saw evidence of his success.

Wand to temple, eyes closed, mind still. With infinite patience, Harry focused and held his breath…

Slowly, slowly he pulled a trembling silver string from his skull. It stretched and shivered in the air. Then finally, his arm was extended fully from his body, and he could turn his head carefully to see a coil of silver curled loosely around his wand tip.

He'd done it! Next was to—

Harry stared at the tip of his wand in something like horror.

A momentary lapse of concentration and Harry was astonished to discover the little glowing coil dissipate into thin air like a wisp of fog. He dragged his wand futilely through the air a few times, near where it had disappeared. Nothing caught. No little string of mist and light reappeared on his wand tip.

Harry bent hurriedly to look into the bowl before him. Empty.

What about in his head? The memory's echo remained, a colourless blur of boys piling into the back seat of Vernon's car, but the memory itself – the charge of emotion, the detail, the colour was gone.

"Argh!"

Harry clutched his hair in frustration. Lucky he'd been careful, that he'd chosen something unimportant. He scanned the air in front of him hopefully, but it seemed to look totally normal.

Blood boiling, Harry had to take a moment to regulate his breaths. Breath in, breath out. Easy does it.

His concentration sharpened, his whirling thoughts slowed and Harry forced himself to sink into the familiar pool of calm and stillness.

On his third try – he chose another memory from the same day; he'd never regret it if he forgot what it was like watching Dudley unwrap his presents – Harry took his time. The world seemed to slow and still, and Harry managed his magic and focus with infinite patience. Just like this morning, he would have realised, if his attention hadn't been on the magic he was moving. Incredible control, precision of power: his mind and magic worked together to create the most delicate of actions.

From the meticulous control within Harry's mind, there blossomed a strange sense of resonance. Like sound waves travelling out and burgeoning, the whole world seemed to resonate in Harry's head for a moment. His tiny moment of control almost echoed in connection with everything. It felt a little like he held the whole universe within his mind.

Despite it all, Harry's stubbornness held out; his peculiarly balanced focus remained and with incredible care, he managed to remain still and sure. Smoothly, a little coil of memory wrapped neatly at the end of his wand, and Harry managed to hold it there long enough to tap it gently on the edge of the stone basin, where it slithered into the bowl.

Success.

He let himself huff out a huge, slow breath of relief, and the strange echoes of the previous moment faded from his mind. After staring at the Pensieve for a moment in sheer relief, Harry prodded it gently with his wand, and a swirling, revolving scene rose up like a ghost, circling the centre of the basin. A boisterous Dudley, eyes bright, talking loudly and excitably. His aunt and uncle, beaming and proud. A quiet, nervous little Harry, dressed in baggy hand-me-downs, hiding unobtrusively in a corner of the scene.

It felt weird looking at himself all young and uncertain like that. In his memory, he looked eight, not ten going on eleven.

Harry poked it quickly again with his wand, so that it transformed again into that little trickle of misty light, and then stuck it back carefully into his head with the same care as before, just to see if he could.

He didn't want to ascribe his success to luck, so he tried a few more times with unimportant memories before he started transferring the significant ones over into the bowl.

He had key…strategic events, perhaps he could call them? Key events that simply had to happen, those which would impact his plan. Which moments would those be? And study – Harry could suddenly streamline his research.

Ooh, and homework, he realised with enthusiasm that bloomed like heat from his stomach and made him forget his slowly numbing knees. He didn't need to wait for any instructions in class now. He could look ahead and anticipate homework and classwork to come! He wouldn't just copy Hermione's essays, he promised himself. He'd learn it all.

Plus, he remembered with unusual excitement, he could listen to lectures with time in fast-forward. What other theories had his missed last timeline just by being too slow to hang it all together?

What was going to happen this year, Harry wondered, leaning eagerly over the Pensieve? Had he stuffed anything up irredeemably already?

His wand loyally by his side, Harry barely noticed the hours slide on by.

* * *

"What's keeping you so busy that you can't see me anymore?" Draco asked over dinner three days later, making Harry choke on his jacket potato.

"Eh?" he managed, around a mouthful of carbohydrate. Clumsily, Harry groped around the table for the tankard of pumpkin juice and drank deeply.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." Draco rolled his eyes. "Swallow, Potter. You should always remember to act cultured in public. Granger should have mentioned it to you, if no one else."

For some reason, Draco did some kind of weird thing with his fingers, waving his cutlery around, fluttering his hand in front of his mouth, before, very intentionally, taking a small sip from the tankard at his side.

Surprised again, Harry stared at Draco for a moment of baffled confusion. He was Potter in public, apparently. Even if Draco was, at the same time, giving him some kind of…etiquette lessons… in public, while simultaneously declaring their ongoing social distance.

Precisely, Harry placed his fork down thoughtfully. That fact explained rather a lot about Draco Malfoy, now that he thought about it. And about Narcissa too. Harry cast his mind back over his years of memories. In fact, this might explain their rather tightknit family group despite everything.

Malfoys in public were different from Malfoys in private, he abruptly realised.

Intentionally.

Harry was so blindsided by this sudden realisation that went back to swallowing his dinner in silence, completely missing the frustrated crinkles in Draco's brow.

"Well?"

Harry kept chewing in contemplative thought. "Hrrm?"

"Potter," the blond finally demanded again. "Swallow your food properly this time and then tell me. What are you doing these days that's more important than me?"

Harry hurried swallowed and turned to face his newest…friend. "Sorry, sorry," he blustered. "The food's just too good, you know? I didn't even think..."

Draco flashed him a very unimpressed look. "Naturally. Your time?"

"Well," Harry grinned. "It's, you know, the holidays and all."

He was rather unsurprised when Draco leaned towards him and said in a quiet, if clipped, voice. "I'm a Slytherin, Potter. I can see your tiny mind racing for excuses. What is it you're doing without me?"

Harry sagged. Of course what worked on Ron and Neville wouldn't work on, well, a sneaky Slytherin.

"Look," he admitted, "it's just a bit hard to say, you know, around here." He gestured subtly at Crabbe and Goyle, who were focussing single-mindedly on their food, and then also at the wider table.

"You're stalling."

"Not, not exactly," Harry murmured, an excuse – or idea, at this stage he'd grasp anything – finally coming to his mind. "The table _really_ isn't the place to be discussing this."

Draco sat back sceptically. "After dinner then, if you don't escape."

"Sure."

"And it had better be good."

An hour later, they were both sitting in the same old charms room and Draco was peering at Harry sceptically from what had become his regular seat.

"Cursed presents? Really?" He snorted. "That's the best you can do?"

Actually into it now that the thought had occurred, Harry rocked forward to balance on the edge of his own seat. "No, no. You don't get it."

"Enlighten me."

Harry grinned. "Well, who in Hogwarts do you find most deserving of, um, let's call it karma." Harry leaned forward to will positive energy into Draco's critical form. "Who do you find most irritating? Most frustrating? Most undeserving?"

"Dumbledore," Malfoy said immediately.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Besides him."

Fortunately, Harry could see the gleam in Draco's eyes that proved he was getting interested despite himself.

"Well…there is this one Hufflepuff prefect…" Draco suggested.

"Not them either," Harry dismissed. "Come on, this should be easy."

Draco stared at his face appraisingly, his eyes flicking over Harry's features before he tentatively ventured. "I'm not quite sure where you're…"

"Come on!" Harry encouraged, "I have a whole lot of attention that I never wanted and a pile of presents that I can't keep, and somewhere in Hogwarts there's a person who's desperate for attention and the kind of collectables that would support their self-worth."

Draco paused. "Lockhart."

Harry threw his hands up into the air. "It only took you long enough!"

Intrigued, Draco sat a little straighter, but the tilt of his head was still sceptical. "But what does that have to do with, you know, you prioritising _the gifts I helped you sort_ over me, the highly esteemed Malfoy scion?"

Harry lied through his teeth. "Well, you know how I feel about our, let's call him our mutual acquaintance, and how this opportunity has – quite literally – fallen into my lap. But I'm going to have to attempt some highly illegal charm work, and I didn't want to risk your reputation – I mean, you helped me with half the job, after all. I've been looking for spells that hide magical signatures, and, er, other magical identifiers that I don't really know about. I mean, surely some of these presents are dangerous and if they get traced back to me, I'm really risking quite a lot."

Harry took a deep breath in the face of Malfoy's thoughtful look and continued. "Because I need to send the owls so that no one can trace them back to me, but surely if that was, y'know, widespread knowledge, then the charms themselves would be highly illegal."

Draco made an unimpressed sound that Harry couldn't quite identify.

Harry rushed on. "So I've been doing some research, usually in Gryffindor Tower since there's practically no one there at the moment, and looking for spells in books and things. I'm just not having much luck, and I didn't want the castle to know what I was researching." He took a breath. "So. There you are."

"Harry Potter, you absolute pillock," Draco finally responded after three long heartbeats of judgemental silence. "You completely Gryffindor git. I can't believe…Well, I suppose you're muggle-raised, after all."

Harry's hackles rose. "Hey…"

"But I suppose your Gryffindorness is the worse of it," Draco continued. "Really, after everything I suppose I'm lucky you're so functional as you are."

"I…what?" Harry deflated.

Draco fixed him with a stern look and spoke slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a child or someone heading into senility. "You wanted to send someone cursed items in the mail, secretly, so you _rattled around Gryffindor Tower_ for Merlin-knows-how-long, when you could have asked your _resident, friendly Slytherin ally?_"

"I…yes?" Harry deflated. It was a very good lie, to have made Draco buy into it so completely and it was exactly the kind of thing Harry would have done too, but somehow Draco's scorn was not sitting comfortably on him.

Draco seemed to be equally unhappy. "I'm not even any old Slytherin, Potter! I'm Draco Malfoy, my direct line of ancestry has been sorted unfailingly into Slytherin since we arrived in Britain in 1066!"

"…Of course," Harry mumbled, somehow torn.

Huffing and with a slightly flushed face, Draco settled back down in his seat – when had he stood up, anyway? – and smoothed his robes down fastidiously.

"I don't even need to research this," Draco exclaimed. "I've literally inherited a book…Look, never you mind the details; I've got the spell side of things all sorted. More importantly, how often are we going to do this thing? Once a week? Fortnightly? Do you have any idea what any of your cursed gifts do?"

* * *

The plan – the plan of Harry and Draco, no less – was organised very rapidly from thereon, and Harry was reduced to squeezing in time with his Pensieve during early mornings and late nights. It was incredibly helpful; particularly after he worked out a schedule of when he would use it for schoolwork versus private study versus, well, Voldemort killing.

It meant that when the Hogwarts Express returned at the end of the holidays, Harry could be found in the common room working on a pile of parchment. He'd been hoping to get a head start on his homework and was frantically scribbling out his research when the Fat Lady swung open and crowds from the train then clattered in.

He ignored them with the ease of long practice, but his focus was disturbed by a frazzled Hermione, who stalked angrily over to the table at which he was working.

"Harry Potter!" she demanded, gaining the two of them more attention from the room than she had anticipated. She repeated herself at a lower volume. "Harry James Potter – You _knew _that Professor Lockhart has been lying to us."

"What? Oh, yeah." Harry scratched his neck. "You've been doing more research over the holidays then? What did you find?"

If anything, Hermione looked even more furious at him as Ron and Neville came up behind her. She grabbed Harry's elbows firmly and dragged him out of his seat. Harry toppled gracelessly down onto one knee in the lee of the table. The two of them crouched there, shadowed by the tabletop, and Hermione stared furiously into Harry's face from less than a foot away. "You've been letting me run my mouth off about how heroic he is, how brave, how strong and ethical, and you knew this all the time?!"

"Uhh..."

"I can't believe you!" She turned to look up at the boys for support. "Well?" She demanded. "Aren't you too upset too?"

Neville wobbled his head around, somewhere between a nod and a shake.

Unfortunately for Ron, he used words instead. "Well, we couldn't just tell you," he blurted. "You wouldn't listen to criticism. You had to come to the conclusion yourself."

Harry flinched.

Hermione froze. Glanced around the trio from Harry, up to Neville, to Ron and back again.

"You…you _all _knew?" She demanded. "_None_ of you told me?"

Realising what he'd started, Ron backed away rapidly, leaving Harry as the focus of her ire.

"Was this _funny _to you?" Hermione grabbed Harry's arms again with crippling force. He felt he was bruising. "Some kind of a _joke_?"

"No, no—"

"While everyone else knows, we'll keep secrets from _the girl_?" Her voice grew louder and louder again. Harry subtly cast a _muffliato_ but it caught her attention_._

"What was that spell, Harry?"

"Oh, uh, just a, um—"

She rolled her eyes. "Let's keep more things secret from Hermione, shall we? Cast spells without telling her. Speak up, Harry. Don't you know it's rude to keep secrets?"

Everything he was keeping secret flashed suddenly through Harry's mind, and he hoped he managed to successfully suppress his urge to flinch. Voldemort, prophecies, Horcruxes…

Harry begged Neville silently for help, but the traitor wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Aren't I your friend, Harry?" Hermione pleaded. "Can't you trust me? I…I thought we could talk about anything."

Harry stared, shocked, at her sudden change in attitude. Wasn't she angry with him? How come her eyes were so red now? Had he, Harry's heart dropped, had he _hurt her feelings_?

"Hermione," he began. "Hermione, I…"

"What now?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Harry blurted, with absolutely no clue what he was going to say next. "I…I'm sorry I couldn't just tell you. You were so _happy_ to learn from Lockhart. So _excited_ to talk about his, his…"

"What?" Hermione let go of Harry's arm, allowing the blood-flow to rush back into his forearm. She angrily scrubbed one palm over her eye. She wasn't crying, to Harry's relief, but her face had gone sort of splotchy and her eyebrows were quivering.

Harry shrugged helplessly. "…His references to Ministry treaties, and regulations, and that ground-breaking attitude towards creatures and beings that you said you liked so much." Awkwardly, Harry reached his free hand over to gently pat her frizzy head. "I didn't want to take that away from you. I'm sorry."

To Harry's bafflement, she drew in a long, rattling sniff. "You were, you were…indulging me?"

"I…yes?"

Hermione shot him a very peculiar look. "…That's really it?"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Of course! I'd...I'd…" He crossed his fingers helplessly behind his back. "I'd never keep secrets from you, Hermione. We're best friends, aren't we? We share everything. I mean, I invited you into our little research group, didn't I? Even if I didn't quite say what the purpose was?" The tiny little voice in his mind that reminded him he was lying was easily pushed away by the urgency of the moment. This young Hermione was so cute when she was nervous, nothing near like the competent, commanding witch he was used to, and she needed encouragement. He continued, "I, uh, didn't tell Ron and Nev either – they figured it out for themselves."

She snuffled wetly. "What's the purpose then?"

"Oh." He looked up at Neville and Ron, who approached cautiously now that the worst was over. "We're, um, we're trying to get him fired?" Harry trailed off.

Hermione quirked a single forboding eyebrow.

Harry carefully detached his other arm from where she was still grabbing it and settled down more comfortably on the floor. "Well," he explained. "You know that rumour that the Defence position's cursed?"

"What about it?"

"We're just trying to help it along." Harry smiled sheepishly. "We figured if we went through his books and found which spells don't work, which timelines are contradictory, and what spells he can't actually perform, we could…" He breathed deeply before speaking very fast. "Link-up-with-a-reporter-and-expose-all-his-lies-to-public, uh, condemnation?"

She scowled, but at least some of it looked thoughtful. "You think that's enough?" To Harry's relief, she seemed to be putting her feelings behind her, now focusing on Lockhart's comeuppance.

Harry vacillated. "There's this reporter I know of, with incredible readership and a rather compelling sense for scandal," he admitted. "I think – I hope, at any rate – that I might be able to convince her to run a series of articles for us. Blow it up big, so it can't be ignored."

The plan had been percolating in Harry's mind for a while, even if the means seemed a little hypocritical.

Hermione's single raised eyebrow was joined by the other one, and she stared at Harry for a long moment in thoughtful silence.

"You're sure that'll be enough?" Neville queried where he stood hovering over the two.

"…Yeah?" _Hopefully. _"I think I've got a good chance."

Ron shrugged. "Works for me."

Hermione gathered herself and stood tall and uncompromising, with one last wipe of her eyes. "If you say you plan will work, Harry, then we'll leave that part to you. I'm going to research the hell out of this bastard. Imagine, _publishing fake facts in school books_! Who does he think he is?

"We'll need a different kind of comparative tables," she glared at the boys, "and we should probably improve our cross-referencing too if it's got to stand up to scrutiny. Harry." She shot him a look. "I can't believe you had us wasting so much time on the wrong kind of notes! You'll need to leave that bit to me; I'll get us sorted." She strode off. In her wake, the boys could hear furiously muttered phrases such as "educational fraud" and "false representation".

She left a startled silence in her wake as each of the boys processed her fury and wondered at the fact that they'd escaped it.

Then, "Wow," Ron muttered, wondrously. "Wonder what lit that fire under her bum?"

Neville and Harry met eyes. "You wonder?"

"Well, yeah?"

Neville kindly grabbed at Ron's arm and carefully forced him upstairs.

"Come on, mate. We'd better go get our notes so we can join her in the library."

"What, now?"

"Yes now. I'm not going to be the one to tell that witch 'no'."

Behind them, Harry tidied up his things to join them. He'd have to process his Pensieve gains another day. For now, an upset Hermione was the priority.


	22. The Valentine's Surprise

Suddenly the year seemed to speed up all of a sudden, and Harry found himself incredibly short on time. In between the homework that teachers began piling on, his own studies, and the anti-Lockhart study-group that Hermione had taken over with a vengeance, Harry's more private goals began to pressure him.

His Pensieve access was desperately squeezed in around his other commitments, usually in bed behind drawn curtains while the dorm was asleep. It was there that Harry prepared homework ahead of time, revised his timeline, and eventually realised that his Occlumency needed significantly more work. Under Draco's increasingly petulant pressure – through letter writing, no less, and when exactly had they become pen-pals anyway? – Harry found his accidental plan to wreak vengeance on the Defence teacher developed; spellwork was practiced and cursed presents secreted about the castle in preparation for a Valentine's Day deadline.

Quidditch practice picked up again, Luna was escorted to the Gobstones Club and Fencing Club with no success. She did walk away with a rash large stab wound right through her left calf, but even Harry was sure that this time it was entirely accidental. He took her to the Hospital Wing and got her patched up straight away, while Luna seemed to feel it was all a bit of an experience.

In between it all, Harry wracked his brains for a safe and effective way to contact Rita Skeeter for a grand conclusion to the year.

That castle bustled with repressed energy and burgeoning tension as homework for junior students grew more and more weighty, and senior students began preparing for exams. Juggling his own pressures, Harry found himself stealing time from sleep to manage everything he needed.

Harry developed circles under his eyes again, and that intermittent cramp he sometimes felt in the pit of his stomach developed into a familiar companion. Sometimes in class or after dinner Harry would stiffen, one hand grabbing at the shooting pain in his stomach, but it always passed.

Of course, he pushed on – short-term suffering was nothing in the face of his long-term goals!

At their regular table in the library, Harry slogged over notes, homework, letters. While the tables around them barely rustled or whispered in the hallowed quiet of the library, his own friends murmured around him quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, while working on an essay or doing his own research, Harry often caught his friends gaze at him worriedly. Hermione and Neville passed each other notes with concerned frowns. Ron, whose enthusiasm for research had been waning, redoubled his efforts and made copious notes at Hermione's direction. His worried hazel eyes also rested on Harry more than they had, but Harry had other things to focus on; he had goals, after all.

Harry raked his hands through dry hair and then gnawed the tip of his quill.

He worried about his goals most of all. As exams approached, Harry needed to do well for next year to succeed, for his long-term plans to work, for _everyone _to stay safe. He'd managed a meeting with Professor McGonagall in between everything else, and while it hadn't gone badly…From the look of her frown and the pursing of her lips, she didn't seem too willing to let him have his way. Harry was currently aiming to beat Hermione in exams, seriously this time, unlike last year when it had been an assumption. He hoped that would be enough to change the professor's mind.

The thought had occurred, a week into his most effective revision, that using his Pensieve to prepare might be cheating; he still had his morals, after all. Besides, could the test for that? Precisely what did the anti-cheating charms catch? So Harry had widened his research goals beyond just the exam; he needed to know all the second-year knowledge so no anti-cheating charms – or whatever – would pick him up.

His workload got heavier.

The Lockhart research was going well in Hermione's capable hands, but he needed to tread carefully to have Rita Skeeter where he wanted her.

This was the first blackmail that Harry had planned, to be fair. Unlike previous years, previous timelines, he couldn't just ask Hermione to sort it out with some great plan. She was much more rule-abiding now, Harry knew, and he didn't want to ruin her innocence if it could be avoided.

He sat at the table in the library while his friends rustled around him. Absent-mindedly, Harry wiped his hand across his face and noticed he'd somehow got an ink-spot on his chin.

Settling down again, Harry scrubbed the robe sleeve across his face, hopefully wiping off the ink, and refocused his mind on Skeeter. Merlin, he really didn't like the woman.

He pulled the latest piece of parchment closer to him and rested it subtly within a protective arm. Harry glanced casually at his friends; none of them seemed curious as to what he was writing.

Shuffling into a more comfortable position, Harry tapped his quill softly against the tabletop and paused.

Just what tone should he take in his letters to get Skeeter onside? Precisely what could he say outright, and what could he imply? And what not? Would simple manipulation work instead? If only the old Hermione was with him, she could solve so many of his problems.

_Dear Rita,_ Harry wrote carefully and then scribbled out. She wasn't a pen-pal, after all. They weren't _friends._

_To Ms Skeeter,_ he tried again. _I don't know what you know about Gilderoy Lockhart, but I've found out a few of his secrets. _

Harry stared at the lines in frustration. Would that…were they friends? Harry suddenly wondered. Did Skeeter already know his secrets and was hiding them – possibly by dint of other gossip coming her way? He scratched out that attempt too.

This would need, Harry realised, to be a _campaign_. A _correspondence_. Building tension and hinting at secrets until Skeeter was hooked and Lockhart's crimes desperate to be revealed.

He'd have to learn to be _scandalous_.

Still at the desk in the library, hunched over while students studied for exams around him, Harry wrote lines and lines of draft letters, most of which he hated. When the sheets of parchment grew full of crossed-out words, Harry screwed them up tight to Vanish out of sight of other students. Intimidating Skeeter wouldn't work. Threatening her would make them enemies, and he needed this to be a partnership that lasted years. Begging her would be unwise. Blackmail would backfire.

He had to find a good balance.

As the sunbeams filtering into the library crept along the floor and slowly approached the walls, the cold bright sun of winter warming into sunset hues, Harry practiced writing mysterious and intriguing phrases.

Enigmatic. Titillating. Salacious. To catch Skeeter's attention he needed _just _the right tone. He crossed out yet another line.

She needed to be curious. Willing to take a risk.

The wall sconces began casting darker shadows on the walls as their flickering flames burned brighter and dusk set in.

* * *

January passed into February and Harry forced himself to keep up his pace.

With exhaustion deep in his bones and shoulders curved with determined fatigue, Harry forced himself to make full use of his every minute.

It was hard getting up in the mornings, with his tiredness and the winter cold and the warm softness of his bed. Harry forced himself on.

By the time Valentine's Day rolled around, Harry had discovered another complication in his hopes for a good night's rest. With the pressure and the panic and the busyness of his mind, Harry should really have expected to suffer from insomnia again. He got used to lying in bed, staring at the bed hangings.

Pillows and blankets seemed irritatingly rough on his skin when all Harry wanted to do was fall unconscious and ignore the world.

He woke up that morning early as usual, despite it being a rare day off from Quidditch practice. After rustling around behind his bed hangings for a couple of hours – the usual routines, nothing special – Harry's tousled head emerged from behind its fabric and he set about getting ready for the day.

Ron, Harry was surprised to notice, was working on waking up earlier in the morning too, although Harry really didn't know why. He sat on the end of his unmade bed lacing his shoes and pondered the issue; somehow, coming back in time had changed more than expected, but how could Ron waking early be a consequence of Harry?

Neville was also waking up, significantly more cheerful than Ron but less coordinated than him about it. By the time Harry had laced up his shoes and wound his Gryffindor scarf about his neck, Neville's head had unstuck itself from inside his woollen winter sweater. To Harry's mild astonishment, none of that awkward process had impeded Neville's conversation at all.

A small fluttery feeling quivered in his at Harry stepped over to join the conversation; Ron's mouth snapped shut, Neville avoided his gaze, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if he had done anything wrong as their muffled exchange ended hastily at his approached.

Stumbling, Harry checked his step – was everything alright?

But then Ron's face broke out in the same wide grin as always, and Neville made a rather rude joke about Harry's hair and the hitch in Harry's step smoothed out. They seemed happy to see him. Things were fine.

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and trotted up.

The boys quickly stumbled out of the dorm and into the common room, where Hermione was waiting for them with a book in hand, and together the group of friends crowded through the Gryffindor portrait and meandered their way towards the Great Hall.

Harry and Ron, thoughts on food and busyness, led the quartet through the cold expanse of Hogwarts' corridors, and Ron puffed in mild amusement as the chilly weather had him breathing out puffs of white breath. While Harry ribbed him, Hermione and Neville lagged behind whispering, their dark heads close together. Harry was sure he heard something about "losing weight again", but he didn't mind their concern. It felt good that people were looking out for him – strange, of course, but nice.

He hadn't been able to hide the greyness of his skin or the emergence of his knuckles and joints as his weight dropped off, so their concern was touching to him. His left hand absently ran behind his neck, massaging the tendons, working at the skin. Ron had a plan for Exploding Snap later in the afternoon if Harry had time, and his easy grin drew Harry in. He treasured this childhood innocence; he didn't want to worry them. Fortunately, he thought he'd concealed the headaches.

Harry wished he could ask for help, share the burden, but he couldn't. He had so many secrets. From Dumbledore, from Snape, Voldemort. Pettigrew. Draco. Even Hermione, Ron, Neville.

He was doing this alone. Harry forced a smile at the Weasley twins as he stepped through the doors to the Hall. Neville and Hermione caught up as they found seats near the middle of the table and Harry quickly raised his legs to step over the bench to grab a seat. Grinning at Percy, who was already at the table and reading the _Prophet_, Harry settled himself down and leaned in to fill his plate.

At least after today there'd be one thing less to worry about.

* * *

The Great Hall filled up early with energetic students. Even the N.E.W.T students seemed to have emerged from their pre-exam haze to make eyes at their crushes and hope for chocolates.

Waking up, Harry felt a similar excitement grow in him: eyes flitting about the room, posture straight. This was the day! It had been a while since he'd planned something so harmless and fun – like a return to his childhood, almost – and the victim was utterly deserving.

Eyes alight, Harry found himself reaching across the table to fill more of his plate. Perhaps a second slice of toast might go well today? And some mushrooms, a few more than usual, Harry thought. He needed an excuse to hang out at the table for a while, after all, and for some reason his stomach had woken up hungry.

The room began heating up with the number of people rising. Gryffindors had to begin shuffling down the long benches to make space for latecomers; cutlery clinked and plates clattered as students dragged their breakfasts down the table to make space for their friends. Percy got a couple of elbows in the ribs to make him fold the paper and put it away for another time.

Seamus was strictly instructed to stop…demonstrating…the game he was describing with pieces of toast strategically placed on the linen.

Harry thought he might as well help himself to seconds.

"The bacon's good this morning, don't you think, Harry?"

Harry nodded, cheerfully chewing. "Not bad, not bad."

Neville and Hermione exchanged glances again, but Harry was busy eyeing up the room.

The teacher table, somewhat to Harry's irritation, filled far more slowly than the student tables. First one, and then another, teacher wandered in to the Great Hall and visibly sighed at the energy in the room before making their way to their seat.

Harry was still feeling perky.

He was hoping that Lockhart opened his presents early; before breakfast would be great, maybe he could walk into the Hall not noticing whatever kind of hex he'd been put under? But Harry had higher hopes: if he could open his gifts over the breakfast table would be best.

Between the heads of other students, Harry caught the eye of Draco, who was sitting at his regular spot on the Slytherin table and keeping himself busy.

He looked jittery, and flashed Harry a surprisingly unsubtle grin as they gazes crossed.

Harry nodded back.

Any moment now. Lockhart couldn't help make a spectacle of himself. Their plan was surely flawless.

Unusually eager to eat his breakfast and see the spectacle, Harry finished his plateful and leaned over to serve up more eggs.

Then the owl post arrived.

Just as they did every morning hundreds of owls swooped in over the study body; grey owls, white owls, eagle owls, screech owls. But this morning, they were innumerable. The Great Hall itself seemed to darken in Harry's eyes as the bodies and wings of the creatures dropped in through the windows and in front of the light. A few loud hoots resounded as the first of the owls landed, proud; then students were calling: hoping for a gift, calling their owl over, exclaiming over a neighbour.

Harry's tension ratcheted up in the noise.

A few seats to his left, Katie squeaked in surprise as a small cuboid parcel dropped down before her and a large spotted bird extended its leg haughtily. Her friends gasped and gossiped; Katie went pink, but owls kept on landing.

In Hufflepuff, Cho Chang was blushing prettily with a small pile of gifts before her. Sumire Tsubaka, tentatively Harry's friend, had even more gifts and was apparently being teased by her girlfriends as the giggled in their places.

The Head Girl seemed buffeted by a small horde of owls, some of whom seemed rather pushy to be accepted first. She also seemed happy, but from the frown on her face was developing irritation with the chaos as the pecking and pushing came a little too close to home.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw girl was glancing eagerly at an older boy in Slytherin, who had also received a pile of gifts.

Harry thought he saw Percy pocket something very small with a poker-face and shifty eyes, before Harry's attention flicked elsewhere.

A number of owls landed at the teacher table, and Harry caught his breath in suspense. Surely they were Lockhart's gifts. _Surely_ this would work.

The Great Hall was filled with a riot of colour: squeals, giggles, charmed wrapping paper that rustled and sang when unwrapped. The noise built up as students discovered their gifts and were teased and cooed over.

Surprisingly, as Harry glanced around the room, there were actually more boys than girls receiving presents. Not many juniors got much, but most of his upperclassman received something, even it was just a card.

But the situation was developing. Owls flocked around one end of the teacher's table, to Lockhart's delight, and his surprisingly deft hands were rapidly relieving the owls of their burdens at the same time he beamed at his colleagues.

Ron took advantage of Harry's distraction by sliding another piece of buttered toast onto his plate while he gazed around.

"Hey," someone said. "Hey, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Get rid of the owl, won't you?"

In a fluster, Harry shook his head and focused. Oh. He had also received some mail. It didn't seem very excited in the grand scheme of things, and Harry rapidly noticed the newspaper held in its beak.

"Uh…right," Harry mumbled, stuffing the last of his food into his mouth. Now with free hands, he beckoned to the bird of come forward. "Mhhmmhmm," he instructed, mouth full. But the bird seemed to understand and the flutter and crush in the middle of the Gryffindor table seemed to ease a little as, one by one, the crowd of birds were relieved of their burdens and flew away – Harry's as well.

It felt like quite some time later when Harry could spare a moment, and noticed that over in Slytherin, Draco's attention had been taken by an older boy a few seats up; his blond head was nodding emphatically as the older boy gesticulated. His eagerness for the next step was apparent though, as he rolled his eyes Harry's way and grinned. Then an eyebrow rose as Harry watched. Harry followed his gaze to where his eyes kept flicking up to survey the teacher table, where Lockhart finally began making his move.

The Great Hall was filled with hooted birds, the sweet, rich smell of breakfast and the slightest haze of owl dander flying.

Harry hastily swallowed the last of his pumpkin juice as the Defence teacher stood up and made his grand speech.

His golden hair was coiffed perfectly, his lavender robes obviously freshly pressed and were those…yes, Harry caught a glimpse of colour-coordinated, purple leather boots to complete Lockhart's ensemble.

"Students!" the tall wizard exclaimed, arms wide, as he strode to the front of the Hall. "Hogwarts! Be still, for I have grand news for you!"

The hubbub and chatter around Harry subsided as Lockhart began his Valentine's Day speech. A number of standing students began to find seats once more.

"It is with great honour that I wish you, all of you," he winked at a student near the front and Harry cringed, "a marvellous, most memorable Valentine's Day."

Lockhart paused while scattered applause sounded from about twelve seats in the room. It was quickly silenced.

"It fills my heart with great joy to see all your…"

Harry turned his head back to the table at the sound of ruffling feathers and saw a single grey owl clicking impatiently in front of him. It was small, surprisingly fluffy, but had a certain attitude of efficiency that reminded him of Hermione and Percy.

Harry glanced up at the front to see Lockhart still talking.

The owl hopped closer.

He leaned forward. "Hullo," Harry murmured quietly. "Are you here for me?"

With another haughty look and a tilt of the head, the owl hopped closer and delicately extended a leg.

As Lockhart's familiar voice droned on and on, Harry curiously untied the small parchment and opened the letter.

_Dear Mr Potter,_ an unfamiliar hand wrote,

_In light of fame and recent exposure in the papers, we at the Diagon Alley Owl Postal Service have made changes to your owl wards for the duration of Valentine's Day. You have in our office a number of gifts and letters, currently numbering in the hundreds, and we have put them aside for your convenience. _

_Please let us know how you would like them to be treated: we are happy to hold them for collection, or to deliver them to you, both for a small extra fee. We are also happy to discuss long-term rates, considering you seem to be a premium customer._

_Please contact us at your discretion,_

_Kind regards_

_Reginald Regis_

_Owl Post Office_

Oh, thought Harry, mildly surprised. He supposed he had received a couple of cards for Valentine's Day in the past. He spared a thought for young Ginny, half hoping she would still gift him something, half wishing she wouldn't. Then his mind focussed: _wait, in the "hundreds"?_

Clutching the parchment in both hands tightly, Harry carefully reread the letter.

Yes, that's what it said. Hundreds.

Harry sat back in silent shock. He– how, why were things so different in this timeline? Where had _hundreds_ of admirers suddenly come from?

The sound of Lockhart's voice was interrupted by some applause, some more half-hearted than others, and Harry startled at the sound.

A small claw scratched gently at his wrist, and Harry – eyes still wide – looked dazedly at the post owl that still waited in front of him.

"Oh," Harry muttered, confused. "You, er, want some bacon?"

He grabbed a piece from the platter in the middle of table and watched in bemusement as the owl guzzled it down.

But it didn't leave.

"Uh…did you want another one?"

Hermione, to his right, nudged him with her elbow and hissed a quiet, "Shush."

That's right, the Great Hall was quiet again, all attention up the front of the room listening to the Great Lockhart's speech on whatever-it-was.

Silently, Harry offered a second piece of bacon to the bird. Instead of helping itself, the small owl reached out a claw again to tap the parchment still held in his left hand.

"Oh, wait." Harry shuffled his hands, his parchment, his cutlery. "Are you, um, waiting for me? I don't have…I'll reply later. I need to think about it."

"Shhhh!"

At Harry's response Hermione hissed once more and the small owl finally seemed satisfied. Snagging that last piece of bacon, it spread its wings and flapped enthusiastically. Harry closed his eyes as dust flew in the wind of its beats, and when he opened them again, the owl was gone.

Harry was still musing silently over the surprise of his letter, when a change in the tone of the room caught his attention. Lockhart's cheerful voice had suddenly stopped, cut off. But no one interrupted. The air felt heavy and silent.

He looked up. "What…?"

Across the table from him, Neville's expression first caught his eye. He was staring up the front of the hall, fork halfway to his mouth, lips still open.

Harry glanced at Hermione as muttering began resounding around the Hall and built up.

"Hermione, wh—"

"Shh, Harry." She sharply swatted him, all her attention clearly at the front of the room.

Then the peace and calm, the curious hubbub of muffled sound was broken by an inhuman screech.

It started soft and grew louder, but never made it to full-throated roar. Instead the noise seemed grating, forced; the sound whining, intensely pained.

Something hard scraped along the floor in a hair-raising squeal; a chair pushed back, clattering to the floor as it toppled over.

Students around Harry stopped moving suddenly. Some froze, faces agape in shock; others stood up quickly, heads craning forward to better see and then paused. Right near Harry, Neville arrested a sudden and violent flinch. At least this part of the Gryffindor table was like a frozen tableau.

Seeing their gazes fixed towards the teachers' table, towards Lockhart, Harry spared another look at Draco before he too tried to see what was happening.

They didn't know what type of curses were on his presents, after all.

But Draco's face didn't look as gleeful as Harry was expecting. His stomach sank, and that strange clenching in his gut came back. He'd eaten too much breakfast, Harry realised distantly. He wanted to throw up; he couldn't throw up.

Distracted, Harry clutched tightly at his chest as he looked towards the teachers, also frozen in the moment in a terrible tableau.

Something seemed to gurgle horribly, almost _bubbling_, behind the table, something the teachers were staring at in shock, something low and unearthly.

Then, "Albus, quickly!"

Minerva McGonagall stood up in a rush, her wand appearing in her hand as she pushed her own chair back.

"Poppy, here!" Professor Snape appeared to say as he too stood up. His high-backed chair toppled over with a bang, and astonishingly Snape didn't even seem to notice. With quick steps to one side of the hall – towards a suspicious gap at the teacher table – Snape strode and bent over something, black cloak billowing in his haste.

Near the focus of their attention sat a number of other professors: Babbling, Kettleburn, Sinistra, even Hagrid.

Harry felt his heart sink as they all put down their cutlery quickly and shuffled away. Making space, the logical voice in Harry's mind whispered. None of them even took anything with them, as if what was happening just out of sight was too serious for any other focus.

Kettleburn went for his wand but the stopped, hesitating, making way for Snape and McGonagall and Dumbledore. Sinistra clutched at her neckline, pale.

Both Snape and the Headmaster were chanting under their breath as McGonagall stood up. With a rapidly paling face, the transfiguration teacher stood back and began casting: a stretcher, thick blankets, tinkles of ice falling, a bucket appeared in Harry's sight.

Madam Pomphrey finally managed to scuttle into the small crowd of teachers and also began casting spells. Harry couldn't hear her voice or follow her wand movements. Then she ducked out of sight behind the heavy tablecloth.

He shot a startled look Draco's way: had this been their fault? What had they done?

Draco tore his eyes away from the front, staring back at Harry. His face paler than ever, lips white; in his wide eyes Harry found no answers.

As Madam Pomfrey seemed to take over, first Professor McGonagall and then Snape stepped back. Their wand-arms dropped to their sides and Snape's dark eyes remained fixedly on whatever was going on behind the table.

Professor McGonagall took a moment to wipe sweat – actual sweat – from her brow. In the intensity of the moment, he absurdly tried to recall if she had sweated during the Battle of Hogwarts. Surely she must have, but... the image seemed oddly wrong and incongruous in his eyes.

The professor seemed to hear his thoughts, and she looked up, seemed to meet his eyes, and Harry saw her blink as she took in the gaping focus on the entirely of the school body.

She coughed lightly, stepping around the table to address the students. "Prefects, please lead all students back to your common rooms immediately. I repeat: Prefects, please lead your housemates back to your common rooms. Leave all food behind – more will be provided to you in due time. All classes will be cancelled for the morning."

She glanced behind herself at some small noise that didn't carry to the students, and Harry noticed the pattern of teachers rearrange: some stepped forward to help, others backed away.

"Off you go," Professor McGonagall announced tiredly. "Points _will_ be taken for any student found in the hallways while we deal with a medical emergency."

Pale and shaking, Harry allowed himself to be ferried out of the Great Hall by the prefects and towards Gryffindor Tower. The crowd was hot and nervous; Harry felt stifled in the throng, his head merely shoulder height on many of the seniors. Looking back, he craned his neck to see Draco, to seek reassurance that what-ever-this-was wasn't _their fault_.

But the Slytherins were rapidly exiting the hall through a distance door and Harry was also jostled by the crowd; Harry couldn't see any second years through the throng.


	23. The Costs of Confidence

**Note: I have FINALLY finished this monster chapter that just kept giving. (This book was supposed to stop around chapter 19, but it wouldn't cooperate.) As I think I've said earlier, I have half-written book three already, but since I've made such massive changes in my editing, I need to pretty much rewrite all of that. I've also got six 'chapter ones' that need deciding on, so I'll post again and let you know once I've uploaded "Harry Potter and the Tracks of Time". Thanks for all your support.**

* * *

It was an awful kind of quiet walk back to the Gryffindor Tower. Students were twitchy, full of nerves, and yet every time someone began speaking, they were hushed by their friends, or fell quickly into silence on their own.

It reminded Harry of the silence of the Battle of Hogwarts just before he died. The heavy pressing weight of no noise; the air full of thoughts and worries and hopes, but voices not willing to break the peace.

Because this was the first shock most of these children had seen. The first real curse. The first…well. In this case, of course, Harry was hoping no one had died.

Jostled between larger students, all Harry could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears and the shuffling of hundreds of feet on stone.

By the time Harry managed to squeeze through the Fat Lady's portrait, the silence had broken. A hum of babble hit his ears as he bumped and jostled his way into the room.

Unsurprisingly, tension was high and rumours were rife, even by Gryffindor standards. Bodies were packed into the common room: no one quite willing to miss any news, students needing to share their shock, to get and give support. Shoved forward against his good sense by the pressure of people behind him, Harry walked straight into two younger girls hugging. He muttered an apology. Despite his fame, they barely seemed to register who he was.

His own state of mind even more disturbed, Harry scanned the room for his friends.

Instead, he saw a number of prefects were visibly dotted around the room; Percy was balanced precariously on the armrest of an armchair; Agnes Bancroft was standing on a table, and the two seventh year prefects bracketed the entrance. Each of them was counting loudly; apparently a headcount was necessary but Harry couldn't see them having any success with the pulsing, seething mass of students.

With so many bodies jumbled together, the room heated up quickly, bringing a flush of red to Harry's recently pale face.

He squeezed himself through the crowd, apologising every time the crush of bodies caused him to elbow someone a little too hard, or crowd a little too close in someone else's space.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, ducking under the arms of a seventh year. "'Scuse me. Ow!" He walked face-first into the chest of a senior girl. "Sorry, I'm _so_ sorry. I really didn't mean to…Excuse me." His red face got hotter as Harry realised what he'd done and then someone _giggled. _"I'm so sorry, I'm really, really sorry…"

"It's alright kid…"

"I didn't mean to," Harry protested. "I'll just head off this–_Oof_—" Someone got him in the diaphragm when they turned around too quickly. Or, possibly Harry might have been rushing. "Sweet Merlin. No, no," he wheezed, bent double over his injured gut. "You're fine. It was my fault. Sorry, pardon me." Harry skirted a group of quidditch players carefully. "Er…" He reached up to pat a few shoulders. "Do you mind if…Thanks so much. 'Scuse me, coming through. Sorry, pardon me."

It took him a while to make it to the space beneath Percy and despite his best attempts, the taller boy did not notice him.

Instead, Harry reached over to grab the elbow of Oliver Wood who had the honoured position of loaning his shoulder for Percy to balance against. "Wood, Wood – I'm over here – Hi. Could you grab Percy for me for a sec?"

The older boy turned and reached out, tapping Percy's shoulder. Poor Percy visibly gave up on the headcount and, leaning down, stretched his head over to speak a little over Harry's ear.

"Harry! You alright there?"

Harry tried a grin which might have come out looking a little sickly, because Percy blanched. "I'm, I'm coping, thanks!" Harry bellowed over the crowd. "Can I borrow your owl, please?"

"What's that?!"

"Hermes!" Harry roared back. "CAN I BORROW YOUR OWL PLEASE?"

Percy blinked. "MY OWL? SURE…HE'LL—"

Harry lost track of Percy's voice in the raucous racket of the crowd and tried again. "WHAT?"

Percy grimaced a little, rolled his eyes, pointed upstairs to the dorms. "HE'LL MEET YOU THERE! OKAY?"

"OKAY!" Harry roared back. "THANKS!"

Then leaving Percy to crowd control, Harry forced his way through the crush to the stairs.

He wasn't panicking, everything would be fine. Just…just a quick letter and he was sure that Draco would tell him all about whatever had happened this morning.

* * *

In Percy's dorm, Harry took a moment to catch his breath and then began to focus. Carefully, he scanned the room for a quill and parchment, before settling himself down sensibly at a flat spot and writing.

_Draco, _he wrote, paying particular attention to the pressure on the quill tip and the shape of his curves and angles,

_I missed the beginning, so I don't know what happened. It was Lockhart who fell off his chair, right? How did it happen? Had he started opening his presents? Was it one of ours?_

Harry felt a quiver run down from his shoulder to fingertip, and a single droplet of dark ink splotched a corner of the otherwise tidy parchment. Harry licked his lips and forced himself further into that familiar calm mindset, his mind shuddering into that cool darkness with relief.

_Was it us? What happened to him? Was – _Harry paused, fear flitting at the edges of his mind – _that horrible gurgling scream…was that because of our gift? What was it?_

_The Gryffindors don't know anything.  
Harry._

He was ready and waiting when Hermes flew in through the window and his hands were rock steady as he tied the letter to the owl with slow, precise movements.

Hermes had barely left when a huge eagle owl soared into the room and landed, dignified, on the top of someone's trunk.

"I…Caligula? You've brought something from Draco?"

Harry tore open the parchment from his Slytherin friend.

_Harry, _the letter began in a significantly more rushed script than Harry's own writing,

_It was one of our gifts – the one from the Fitzroys, if I remember right. Although now we know it probably wasn't really the Fitzroys. They wouldn't have signed their real name to that. _

_Harry! We left through the Slytherin door, the one closest to the teachers. The prefects say they heard it was a blood-boiling curse! It's supposed to kill people, painfully, in less than three minutes._

_Someone out there really wants to you die, Harry. Be careful, alright? And Vanish this letter._

In true Slytherin fashion, there was no signature.

"Wait!" Harry called out, as the eagle owl made to leave. "I have a reply, alright?"

He controlled his fingers carefully to scratch out another note.

_Draco,_

_Can we stop the other presents being delivered? We should have just Vanished them all._

But it was with a sinking heart that Harry already knew; the presents had already left their hands. That had been the plan, after all. To make them untraceable; to provide them with alibis.

Harry hoped Lockhart would live through their delivery.

By the time Harry had found Ron, Hermione and Neville, news had filtered through the castle that all activities were cancelled for the day. That included Lockhart's Valentine's Day celebrations – Harry wondered idly if Lockhart's hired dwarves had still been paid – and instead a basket of love notes had been left in the common room for prefects to hand out in the evening.

Classes picked up on Monday like normal though, although the castle was quieter than usual. Defence was being taught by a rotation of different teachers depending on their timetables.

A few days passed as the guilt and the weight pressed down on him and no one had news of Lockhart.

Harry stopped eating dinner just so he could get to sleep again, wanting to avoid the pressure on the stomach and the churning and the taste of bile in his throat as he lay in bed each night and stared into the darkness.

Neville and Hermione shared dark looks they didn't even try to hide from Harry, and Ron kept trying to sneak things onto his plate when he wasn't looking, but even their concern didn't make Harry feel better this time.

* * *

Draco found time to send Harry a sternly worded note, and they arranged to meet in an uninhabited corner of the castle. Ultimately agreeing to meet in the Owlery, they chose there because it was still cold enough – and smelled bad enough – that people tended to avoid coming, and if they did, they didn't linger.

Harry founding himself puffing as he reached the top of the stairs, lungs burning with the chilly wind he couldn't help but suck in. He wondered briefly, as he stood stooped, desperately catching his breath, if perhaps he hadn't lost some of his fitness recently. He should be used to be climbing castle stairways by now.

Then Draco arrived and grilled Harry mercilessly about his health. That was unusually observant, even for the Slytherin, until Harry realised that he wasn't talking about the weight-loss and dark circles, but Valentine's Day.

"I'm not cursed, Draco!" Harry finally interrupted.

"I'm aware of that, Harry, but that's probably just luck on your part!"

He wouldn't then move on to talking about what they had done to Lockhart.

The blood boiling curse, Harry had discovered, was one of the most painful ways to die and almost impossible to survive. Lockhart had been lucky, Harry realised, to have opened his presents in front of some of the most magically qualified wizards in Britain. And due to Harry's dumb luck and ability to screw almost anything up, Lockhart had almost died anyway.

Draco didn't get it. Harry eyed his Slytherin friend with suspicion as Draco waved his concerns away as they stood in a corner of the Owlery, shivering slightly in the crisp air, and shared rushed whispers.

"We almost became killers, Draco," Harry worried insistently.

Draco shrugged. "We didn't plan it now, did we? There are other things I'm more worried about."

Harry cocked his head in the pale light streaming in the tower. It was cold enough to make his nose run and his face sting, but at least that helped him clear his head.

"Excuse me?"

Draco's pale hands darted through the air as he gestured, and the brisk air ruffled his blond hair. "I mean, moving on from the unfortunate Lockhart angle."

"Moving on?" Just like that? Harry raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Was it possible for a normal person just to brush that aside, that they'd almost killed a teacher?

Had he misread the boy? Were the prejudices right? Lack of empathy was a worrying trait – stereotypically Slytherin, of course; almost Death Eater-like…

Then Draco finally pushed on.

"Someone really hates you, Harry!"

Harry shrugged, used to it. "Well, yeah."

"No!" The blond insisted. "Someone _hates you_ hates you. They wanted you to die, Harry!"

Harry creased his forehead. "Yeah. Obviously."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Are you dumb, Potter? That present was _for you_. They wanted _you_ to die, painfully, unstoppably. Are you, are you okay?"

_Oh._ Draco was worried for Harry. What an odd thought. Harry smiled, to the utter confusion of the Slytherin. "Oh, I get what you mean," Harry nodded. "I know."

Obviously frustrated beyond belief, Draco threw his hands up in the air, disturbing owl dandruff and causing a couple of owls to wake up, blink their eyes and hoot. Draco shot them an irritated look which perhaps the poor birds didn't quite deserve.

"You know. You _know_? Harry, you're not taking this seriously! This isn't some prank, some mildly irritating, embarrassing short-term thing worth a detention and some House points. If– if you hadn't known that check spell, Occlu-thingy, if you hadn't been _really good at it_, you would have opened that present and _died_, Harry!"

"I—"

"That could have been _you_, Harry! Dying in front of me! And I wouldn't have been able to save you!"

"Sorry!" Harry interrupted.

"You…what?"

Harry scuffed a foot in the straw that lay over the stone floor, disturbing a couple of brown and grey feathers. "I, I didn't realise you were going to feel like this, Draco, so I'm really sorry for, for worrying you, and for scaring you."

"You're still not taking this seriously, you twat! I don't say this often, but _I_ am not the point here!"

"I am serious," Harry assured him. "I really am, I promise. I just…well, I really am just used to this."

There was silence in their hidden corner as Draco's mouth worked noiselessly, shock and disbelief evident on his face.

Then, "Used to it!?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "I…did you think maybe being the Boy-Who-Lived was all fun and games? Lots of money and fame and people wanting to spend time with me? Piles of presents and soppy fan letters?"

"Well…"

"Because that's the one side." Harry continued, thoughts flashing back to the Triwizard Tournament, to Umbridge, to that year with Hermione on the run. "I…I was hidden as a child – with my muggles, as you call them – for my _safety_, Draco."

Draco settled down and tugged the edges of his heavy winter cloak together. He suddenly looked, in Harry's eyes, very, very young. "Really?"

"Sorry."

Harry could see Draco struggling to make sense of a world that had suddenly revealed itself to be less safe than it seemed. Harry knew was he was going through. That horrible time after Sirius died when he had realised that life wasn't kind and death not fair still made him feel cold and hopeless when he thought about it.

He felt old, so old, in front of Draco's realisation.

"…Did you know those gifts could kill, then?"

"What? No!" Harry dismissed. "I…I thought they'd be charmed to make me love someone, or to lure me out of the castle, or maybe even just harmless stuff like turn me Gryffindor colours or something."

"But you said–?"

"People usually try to kill me a little more directly. Face to face, you know."

To Harry's mild amusement, Draco was left utterly speechless in the face of Harry's bland explanation and stood still, blinking, as his mind tried to catch up. To Harry's distant amusement, Draco mouthed the word 'usually' in disbelieve.

"I mean," Harry continued, shoulders heavy. "I should have expected it. And I didn't. So, I…I'm sorry. I'm really…I regret not considering that. I was having too much fun being normal, I think."

"Normal."

"Hmm." Harry raised a weary eyebrow. His shoulders hurt, his stomach felt queasy. Some muscles running up his neck was really tight and giving him the worst headache.

"But," Draco tried once more. "But who would hate you so much that they'd want you dead?"

Harry shrugged, feeling more secure and less worldly-wise as the topic returned to what he was used to. "Death Eaters, probably. Although I guess we can't rule out Voldemort's victims, blaming me for not vanquishing him sooner."

Draco flinched. "Can you call him You-Know-Who, please? I…wait, people would do that?"

Harry smiled sadly. "People always think you owe them something, I've discovered. Even if you do your best."

Draco frowned, sniffed, stood upright. He raised one eyebrow in the distinctive Malfoy sneer, making Harry feel absurdly nostalgic. "Well, that doesn't seem right. People should know better. I mean – you lost your parents, and your culture and upbringing and…and all sorts!"

Now that the conversation was on safer topics, Harry felt the tension in his shoulders, the throbbing in his temples fade. "Well, yeah, but I lived, so…"

Looking stern, like a child playing adult, Draco reached out and patted Harry firmly on the shoulder. "I won't assume things about you from now on, Harry. I promise. And I'll help you with anything you need."

"I…thanks." Harry blinked.

Malfoy nodded. "Even if being the Boy-Who-Lived isn't all it's made out to be, you'll still have me. Friends?"

Harry quirked his head. "Thanks a lot, Draco. That's...strangely reassuring."

"Of course it's reassuring," Draco smirked. "I'm a Malfoy."

"Of course." Harry nodded. "Naturally. Er…weren't we already friends?"

Draco sniffed, and then sneezed when some owl dander went up his nose. "Excuse me."

"Bless you."

"Thanks." Malfoy went on. "You think it's that easy to make friends with, not just a Slytherin, but a Malfoy? We were allies."

Harry half-believed it, if that's what Malfoy needed to tell himself. "Ohh, I see. Allies, was it?"

"But now we're friends," Draco emphasised. "Friends."

To Harry's silent amusement, they shook on it.

* * *

School continued. Lockhart survived; reports made it into the Prophet that dark wizards previously defeated by Lockhart were holding a grudge, and no one seemed to connect Harry and Draco to the steady stream of dodgy gifts that came Lockhart's way. Aurors began filtering the man's mail.

Classes settled down, homework increased. The teachers stopped worrying about the students' response to Lockhart's curse and began pressuring them to study.

Lockhart returned to class, a little thinner and twitchier, but otherwise unchanged.

Quidditch practise got more intense, again, as the season picked up. The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match also passed, and with the twins back in form and Harry's expertise, they smashed the opposition in less than two hours.

Harry made it into the news again, but this time as a small article on the fifth page. The focus was still on Lockhart and his 'hidden enemies'; a lot of his past travels were being brought up in the news, and Hermione had decided to cross-reference them all with their existing research notes.

Personally, Harry was just pleased there were few details about him.

He dared to hope his fame was finally settling down.

He also finally posted away a letter to Skeeter, and hoped it was okay.

* * *

February passed into March and then April.

Gryffindor faced Hufflepuff in Quidditch. Due to his tiredness, and what he was worried was turning into a lack of stamina, Harry focussed extra hard to end the game early. He caught the snitch after forty minutes.

"There were reporters in the crowd," Hermione mentioned to him after in the library, while they caught up on homework and plotted for Lockhart's downfall.

"And scouts!" Ron had added. He had a large encyclopaedia open in front of him, but his fingers just flipped randomly through the pages.

Harry himself wasn't really bothered by the fuss this time round; he had too much on his mind. "Eh?" He finished a transfiguration essay with a flourish and reached over to grab a book on blackmail. His left hand pressed his temple in a now-common gesture; the ever-present headaches just didn't go away.

Ron slapped the book and shot him a mock-disappointed stare. "They were all here for you, mate."

Harry dismissed him.

"Like, for reals."

"Nah."

Neville piped up from his seat at the table. "I think you're underestimating your own value, Harry."

He scoffed. "I'm just a kid! What do they care? I mean, aside from the shock value that I'm still alive and kicking after eleven years and all."

Hermione added, her face buried in a book, "And your mysterious disappearance for a decade."

"Oh yeah, and that."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "And your incredible quidditch skills, which you dominate Hogwarts with?"

Neville spoke up. "And your flying in general?"

Hermione looked up at him, a single wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. "Don't forget that you reply individually to every letter fans send you. I'm surprised the sponsors haven't found you yet."

Harry wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. "They have, actually. I just don't really know what to do about them, so I've asked them to wait till I get to the end of the year. They're beginning to pile up, I guess, but I'm busy."

There was a change of atmosphere at the table, and Harry watched confusion as his friends all exchanged glances and sat a little straighter.

"Harry," Hermione began, folding her hands elegantly over her lap. "We'd like to talk to you about that."

"Yeah mate," Neville added. "We're a bit worried."

Ron nodded.

Harry glanced around them. "Er…okay then?...Go ahead?"

For some reason, Hermione looked exasperated and fond at the same time. "You can't figure it out, Harry?"

"Figure what?"

"We're worried about you," the brunette nodded, brown eyes wide and worried as she leaned towards him from across the table. She patted him gently on the hand, and Harry did admit that against her dainty, feminine fingers, his joints and tendons looked a bit conspicuous. "You're losing weight again, Harry. And you have dark circles. Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." Harry shrugged. "A bit tired, but, I mean, exams are coming up and stuff, right? There's a lot to do."

Ron looked horrified. "Exams, mate? Harry, it's _April_."

"Yeah? And?"

Ron and Neville exchanged worried glances, while Hermione shuffled some parchment in front of her. "Well, in that case," she muttered, "I suppose you've got a point. I'll have to sort out a study schedule for all of us."

"Eh, hang on a minute…" Ron began.

Hermione looked up, suddenly frazzled. "No, he's right. Exams are merely _weeks_ away. I can't believe I let this Lockhart research take over!" She grabbed the long, Eagle Owl quill that she favoured, and madly began scribbling notes on a spare piece of parchment.

"I don't think I'm keeping up," Ron admitted.

Neville shrugged. "We just do what we're told." He leaned over to ruffle Ron's hair roughly. "And if the research is getting you down, how about you take a break? Have a nap or something, while Hermione works out our study schedule."

"Yeah." Ron's wide eyes looked very confused. "Yeah, I…I will. I'm not cut out for this stuff, I don't think."

Harry bent his head back to the book. None of them were, frankly, but he was doing what he could to change.

Hermione's voice floated up from her scribbling, slightly muffled as she bent over the table. "This Lockhart stuff is starting to slow down too. We don't have access to some of the data we need. Solutions?"

"Oh!" Harry jolted. "Actually, I just solved that one. We needed more access to advanced textbooks, so I asked a professor for access to the entire Restricted Section." He turned to dig around through his pockets, and finally waved a small piece of parchment triumphantly.

Hermione was mostly distracted by her writing. "Which books?"

"The _entire_ Restricted section?" Neville queried, head cocked.

"But," began Ron, looking slightly confused, "what kind of teacher would give you blanket permission to access...with a signature..." His voice trailed away. "Oh! You didn't!"

His other friends also followed the logic.

"You tricked Professor Lockhart into providing the signature for us to bring about his own downfall?" Hermione asked with wide eyes. Humour, pity and satisfaction chased over her face. "Oh, Harry."

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Uh…did you notice Lockhart's been missing a lot of meals lately? He's, um, been a bit frazzled recently. I just caught him at a good time."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow sceptically.

"A good time for me, I mean. You might have noticed he's not quite recovered from, you know, and I've, well," Harry blushed. "I've been helping him answer the fan mail that makes it past the Aurors."

Mouths opened but no words came out.

Harry shrugged. "I, uh, I figured I kinda owed him one, since he's going to be losing his job soon?" – and had almost died in Harry's place; had almost died because Harry posted things to him; because Harry _hadn't thought_ – "I think maybe he should really retire and just keep himself safe."

The words came out heavier than Harry had intended; they landed on the table with an almost audible thud and his friends glanced at him, curious as to the sudden mood change. There was silence for a moment as no one knew how to respond, before Ron – honest, oblivious Ron – broke the mood.

"It's practically like you're really going out of your way for his actual benefit, Harry."

"Hmm," Harry hummed non-committedly. "Look, I just made use of the opportunities I had."

Hermione raised both eyebrows. "I guess you have. Harry Potter, you're always surprising me."

Neville shot a silent look her way, but Harry didn't notice.

"Oh? I'll take that as a good thing, I guess?"

* * *

Unsurprisingly if unsatisfyingly, time stopped for no wizard. The school year began to feel like a boulder rolling downhill: uncontrolled, undirected, and with more momentum every moment.

Harry got in contact with the Owl Post people, and set himself deadlines to work through all the mail. Again.

He and Draco remained in touch, closer than ever, really, since that strange conversation in the Owlery; Harry found himself appreciating his advice.

"Why don't you get your people to screen your mail for you?" Draco finally wrote one day, sick of Harry's complaints about time during their moderately frequent correspondence.

"My who?" Harry had responded, and a sudden rash of owls appeared in Hogwarts, carrying missives and instructions about lawyers and accountants, and a good personal assistant or two.

"Are you honestly expecting to deal with all the legal work on your own, Harry?" Draco continued, once the majority of advice and admonishments were out of the way.

Quill in hand, Harry felt another headache burgeoning as he slowly penned the words, "What legal work, precisely?"

Rapidly educated, Harry began sending owls to enquire as to where he could get some legal and financial advice to guide him through all the sponsorship offers and will bequests that had apparently come his way.

Post quidditch match, Hogwarts appeared to have moved on from Lockhart's close call, and students instead stopped Harry in the corridors for photos. Personally, Harry blamed the Prophet coverage – he was back on the front page again.

In a possibly related occurrence, Snape scowled more viciously at Harry than he had in living memory – it even penetrated through the veil of familiarity and exhaustion that Harry had been shrouded with. He earned a string of detentions for pointless things both in Potions and in the corridors.

When the stray thought occurred, that Harry was glad at least Dobby had stopped 'helping' him, he realised that he hadn't freed Dobby yet, and probably couldn't this year either. Lucius Malfoy certainly wasn't going to visit Harry in the school while Dobby was with him, and Harry certainly wasn't going to give any diary remnants back.

All his plans blurred together, all intentions became vague, and the dizzying spiral of things to do, and things to remember, and places to he began to overwhelm Harry even despite his strict schedule and newfound Occlumency. He began using the Pensive more, trying to eke out every drop of knowledge available to him.

In an effort to feel accomplished, Harry snuck out on his own one night and removed the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw from the Room of Requirement. At least, Harry hoped, he might get the feeling that he was achieving things, some things – at least some_thing_ – despite the chaos and the busy and the ever-growing sense of failure.

It only took a moment to stab it to death with a Basilisk fang he had taken from the monster, and he grinned in satisfaction as the thing keen a high, horrible sound before vibrating violently and shaking itself into bits. Then, having mentally ticked something off of his To-Do list, Harry felt the satisfaction fade as the urgent need to _do something_ welled up within him once more.

Everything began adding up.

They finished the Lockhart research – as good as it was going to get – and Harry began sending snippets to Skeeter to whet her appetite.

"But nothing big until after exams," Hermione insisted as she handed over all the piles of parchment into Harry's keeping. "After exams, okay Harry? We can let Lockhart's teaching speak for itself, but for the students who actually tried, we can't disturb their academics, can we?"

"Of course," Harry lied blankly, having never considered Hogwarts exams to be…important. They'd been cancelled so often over the years, after all.

But since Hermione insisted, he waited through the exams before posting off large stacks of data. He waited until the final exams had been and gone – even for the seniors, even the seventh years – and then finally sent all of the damning scandal to Skeeter's waiting hands.

At the end of the year, after everything Hogwarts was over, it was a physical relief for Harry when the _Prophet_ came out revealing all Lockhart's lies.

It happened the morning of the Leaving Feast, just when Lockhart was probably beginning to believe that he had made it safely through the year unscathed.

Dozens of owls flew into the Great Hall for breakfast, while Harry sat with his friends and argued with Percy over the nature of advanced transfiguration. The flutter of wings was nothing special, but the glaring bold headlines and gasps of surprise turned heads very quickly.

Soon, toast, marmalade and bacon were all left abandoned on plates while chattering students peered over the shoulders of anyone lucky enough to have a paper subscription. The Hall buzzed with sound.

The teaching staff too, Harry was amused to see, were craning their heads to read through the article which said nothing factual but hinted deliciously at scandals untold.

Lockhart, to Harry's guilty amusement, was pale, and left breakfast early while clutching his stomach.

* * *

The evening meal was still buzzing with the news and students argued over the truth of the matter, fuelled significantly by Lockhart's unexplained absence from the castle. A special edition paper had come out that evening, practically filled with Skeeter's scathing lines, all focussing on Lockhart's life and lies revealed. Gryffindor still celebrated their House win, of course, but the other Houses didn't seem to mind. Even Slytherin – even Draco – seemed more caught up in the Lockhart scandal than school competition.

Of course, Harry thought, silently shovelling peas into his mouth while chaos reigned around him, a significant reason for that was the post-exam senior students. The poor children had just busted themselves to study to exams – for their futures, for a lot of them – and Skeeter had just revealed that a lot of that effort was probably going to be a waste.

* * *

The following morning over breakfast, with more scandalous headlines, the castle was convinced of Lockhart's crimes. Facts had been hinted at, interviews quoted. Although all student comments were anonymous – Harry's friend group most prominent – the Potter name was dropped in a number of times and whispers repeated over the breakfast tables.

Poor "Potter's education undermined", the "young orphan with no one to oversee the quality of his education" and "Young star shackled by lack of professional teachers" really did seem to pluck at parental heartstrings. It was all very emotional.

Soon, hundreds of menacing Howlers arrived at Hogwarts, Lockhart apparently also having a talent for owl-post warding; the owls didn't seem to know he was missing. Alternatively, maybe the owls were for Dumbledore, for hiring the man. Harry sat in his seat at Gryffindor table and didn't know who the letters were for. Peacefully drinking his pumpkin juice, Harry found he was quite content not to care.

Personally, emotions complex, Harry found himself hoping the wizard had escaped the country for a time, where the scandal and public censure could not endanger him and where he could hopefully retire in peace.

If he stuck to novel writing, not teaching, Harry would feel far better disposed towards the man. And indeed, if anyone could make good use of bad publicity, it would be the promotionally-minded Gilderoy Lockhart.

If Harry's little plan had gone a little awry in the middle with that near-death incident, he felt significantly more content to successfully reveal a teaching fraud and allowing a scandalous escape. Knowing what he did about the future, Harry was honestly passionate about the need for good Defence teachers. Since he'd managed it in the end without anyone dying, Harry took it as a win.

Before Hogwarts was out, the Ministry went into damage control. All Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. results would be declared void upon request, as so many families were worried about passing. The assembled school was in the middle of absorbing the fact that the resulting chaos would take Professor Dumbledore and his staff weeks to clear up over the holidays, while Harry and his friends sat back in satisfaction.

"So what's it like for the Defence Curse to use you?" Ron grinned over at Harry across the breakfast table while the other students finished eating and began heading off elsewhere. "You're the reason we've lost our Defence teacher, Harry. How does it feel?"

Hermione shot Ron a scolding glance, but Harry muffled a quiet snort and sat back in his chair. "Hey, you lot were used as well, if that's how you want it."

Neville snorted. "Go on! This was all your idea."

"Well," Harry began, "without Hermione it would never have even got off the round." He shot a tired grin – they were all tired grins these days, but at least he was trying – and she smiled back at him. All their tension from over Christmas seemed to have been forgiven and forgotten. "We all put up a good effort."

"Damn right I did," Ron agreed. "I studied more for this blasted business than I've studied in my life!"

Neville jostled him cheerfully. "Probably did you good, mate."

Ron grinned. "The shock might still kill me yet! You've made us make history, Harry."

He rolled his eyes. "Nonsense, this little effort doesn't even count as historical. How many years has this cursed hit concurrently, Hermione?" He continued before she could respond. "Besides, this isn't the first time I…I've –"

Harry stopped suddenly, and dropped his knife in his shock. His mouth seemed stuck, like a skipping record player.

"I've, I've, I've, I've, I've," Harry heard himself say mindlessly, shock reverberating. Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Hermione hiss as the jam covered blade rolled off the edge of his plate, spreading sticky red jelly all over the table. Then she looked at his rapidly paling face.

"You need to…Harry?" Hermione's tone changed. "Is everything alright? Harry?"

"I—I—I…" Harry felt himself make a high, keening kind of noise, like a puppy in distress.

"Mate," Neville added, eyeing Harry worriedly. "Harry. What happened?"

Harry blinked slowly, his face suddenly so pale and drained of blood that he looked grey. "…Yes…I did. What?"

Exchanging worried glances, his friends shuffled closer to him and lowered their voices.

Hermione gently reached over a hand to feel Harry's forehead. "You really don't look good, Harry. How do you feel?"

"Yes," Harry repeated blankly and then his lower lip trembled like he couldn't quite mouth the words he wanted to say. He swallowed noisily.

Harry distantly felt like his friends were saying something, perhaps talking to each other – or to him?

"Harry. Look at me, Harry. Harry, breathe," someone said.

He focussed hard to pull himself back together, to ignore the screaming panic in his head and the sudden coldness of his hands.

To the confusion of his friends, Harry's lost eyes slowly refocused; he turned to look at Hermione sluggishly. "I don't feel too good, Hermione. Can you tell the professors I can't… do… today? I'm going to…I have to…things."

"…Right," Neville agreed cautiously when Ron and Hermione failed to respond. "I'll walk to up to the Infirmary now, Harry. Do you want to take your stuff?"

Harry sat there in silence for a moment longer, before his face frowned in concentration and he stood to leave the table. He stumbled, a stray foot catching on a corner, but didn't seem to notice as he lurched forward blankly.

"Harry! Harry, wait!" Neville called, as Harry tottered off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. "I'll come with you, not that way. Come on."

Harry felt his wrist grasped by his good friend, and let himself be guided along the corridors, his mind in a frantic whirl and his stomach churning. His half-eaten breakfast now seemed like a horrible idea.

He'd _killed _Profession Quirrell, Harry had finally realised with cold shock. He'd murdered him. On purpose. He'd _planned_ it.

He let out a hysterical little giggle as Neville kept him upright through sheer force. All that panic about Lockhart's curse, but Harry had already done it to someone! What was the point of worrying?

Harry let himself be guided by Neville's firm grasp as they tottered towards the Infirmary and, hopefully, a Calming Draught or two.

He was a murderer, the thought sank in.

Not like before, when everything was an accident. No, this timeline round he'd gone into things with eyes wide open. He'd known Quirrell would die at the end of first year; known that his touch would be fatal.

And he planned for it anyway. Knowing the outcome in advance and plotting it all out for his convenience. Premeditated and everything.

That irritatingly familiar ringing in his ears came back as Harry's mind whirled and he stubbed his toe against something on the floor. Neville's warm hands – they were good hands, Harry thought; he could always rely on Neville – took a moment to rearrange themselves and then gripped him more firmly.

_Death Eaters_ were the murderers; Harry was sure he'd been on the other side. He'd assumed all this time that he was one of the good guys!

Heat retreated from his hands and feet, leaving his whole body cold and numb. Harry noticed blankly, as Neville's firm grip supported him slowly onwards, that his body had somehow begun trembling. Long, rolling shudders racked his body as his feet faltered onwards, one unsteady step after another. Neville's firm grip on his one wrist became a firm grip on a wrist and elbow, as Harry found the world tilt around him again and the increasingly worried Neville lifted, supported, hustled him upstairs.

He was doing this all wrong.

How had he not planned for this? What else had he done? Or not done?


	24. Author's Note

Hey folks,

I promised I'd post a little author's note to let you know when the next book is up and running, so here it is. "Harry Potter and the Tracks of Time" is officially on the works. I've managed to get a few chapters in, so hopefully uploads will happen faster for a while – but then you know what happened last time I promised something similar, so I guess we'll see.

Thanks as always for your support, and I hope that you continue to read and review. All your comments are appreciated greatly.

Much love

viciousmouse


End file.
